


Beyond Expectations

by SimpleStories



Series: Beyond Expectations [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate to Love, Hogwarts, I wouldn't say it was dark or anything, I'll add more Characters as they appear in new Chapters, I'll add more as I go, Is any Fiction, It's more like Acquaintances to Enemies to Lovers, Lily and James Potter Vibes, Plot, Possible Character Death, Possible smut, Slow Burn, Werewolf, but it won't be all fluff, canon complient, depending on how I'm feeling, terrible summary, terrible tags, won't be all angst either
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:09:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 67,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimpleStories/pseuds/SimpleStories
Summary: *Currently undergoing a big edit - story and plot remain the same, mainly fixing some grammar and formatting. Still continuing updates as I edit*She was tempted to turn a blind eye and accept the cross-dressing students as a mere cultural difference. Alas, she had an obligation to her school, which required her to intervene and prevent a possible international incident.It was not fear that caused the hesitation. Fear was a feeling she could overcome. She’d stared in the face of a convicted mass murderer at fourteen years old - well, they had thought he was guilty at the time, his proven innocence didn’t negate her bravery.Fred Weasley’s presence gave Hermione the urge to throw things, which was not so easily conquered. She was too physically drained to deal with the Weasley Twins - especially Fred - the most infuriating git to grace these halls in centuries. After Voldemort, of course - nasty bugger.
Relationships: Fred Weasley & George Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Luna Lovegood, Hermione Granger & Remus Lupin, Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley
Series: Beyond Expectations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614142
Comments: 115
Kudos: 262





	1. Brooms and Bludgers

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all. So, the chapter begins during the Goblet of fire, but it flashes back to where the story begins during the Prisoner of Azkaban. Does that make sense? I promise when you read it, it will. I will continue on from the flashback, don't worry I won't be jumping back and forth. That'd be terribly confusing to read, or even to write.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the first chapter!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione stands up for a small muggleborn with, issuing her own justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. So, the chapter begins during the Goblet of fire, but it flashes back to where the story begins during the Prisoner of Azkaban. Does that make sense? I promise when you read it, it will. I will continue on from the flashback, don't worry I won't be jumping back and forth. That'd be terribly confusing to read, or even to write.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the first chapter!
> 
> Edited as of 17/05/2020.

Her Grandmother liked to tell people Hermione’s first breath was a question. It was the best way to describe the core of Hermione. Her questioning nature was both nourished by her grandmother, and condemned by her peers - muggle and magical alike.

Yes, she’d found a rare commonality between the magical and muggle communities – there was no home for Hermione in either world. The kick off of her fourth year at Hogwarts was an unwanted reminder of her interloper status. 

She had been positively itching to meet the new students and pick the magical knowledge from their brains like a grooming gorilla. She suspected that like Hogwarts, their schools had secrets that could not be found in ordinary books.

How did they access their kitchens?

Did they tickle a banana?

Did they even have portraits?

Maybe, they even had their own monsters lurking in their drains…

Her excitement plummeted drastically when the day finally came. What she’d hoped for was engaging conversations that challenged her world view. Her first mistake was hoping.

Instead of basic civility, she got looks of revolt from the majority of Durmstrang students for whatever reason. Honestly, they seemed personally attacked by anyone that was not their own, yet she couldn't help but feel there was more to it. 

It was as if their roman noses could sense the impurity laying in her blood, stealing her magic from the air around them. The cold petite shoulders of the stunning Beauxbatons creatures had not encouraged her either.

Bleary-eyed, she dredged through the halls and dreamt of the end of the Triwizard Tournament. It had only been two weeks since the hallowed halls of Hogwarts received their foreign invaders, every-day dragged like a week and every week dragged like a year. Gone was the girl who was thrilled by the chance to experience a small taste of a different wizarding culture, replaced by an embittered zombie slumping through the halls.

In the absence of her excitement, her idle hands began to fill. Harry decided it was necessary to continue his annual tradition of falling into life-threatening scenarios, and tugging Hermione along for the ride. She spent most of her days lodging in the narrow library aisles, while not unusual, it was less thrilling when you were struggling to find ways to keep the Boy Who Lived alive. On top of that, she was juggling her time between both Harry and Ron, both boys tugged at her like two children fighting over a toy.

There was no escape. Hogwarts had never felt so small for the humble witch, something she’d never thought possible. Every corner unleashed a new horror in her mind. She’d spy a gaggle of giggling Beauxbaton girls swathed in their silk periwinkle dresses, and suddenly she would remember why they were here. Her Harry was going to be challenging a dragon - _a bloody dragon_. 

If there was one witch who deserved a break it was Hermione Granger. Judging by the burly purple faced Durmstrang boys fleeing the halls, she would have no such luck today.

Heaving a sigh, she headed in the direction the frilly-skirted boys were escaping from and towards the hooting and hollering. She’d recognise that cackle anywhere – mostly from her recurring nightmares, where he’d finally achieve his goal and ship her straight to St. Mungo’s.

She was tempted to turn a blind eye and accept the cross-dressing students as a mere cultural difference. Alas, she had an obligation to her school, which required her to intervene and prevent a possible international incident.

It was not fear of that caused the hesitation. Fear was a feeling she could overcome and had done so on many occasions. She’d stared in the face of a convicted mass murderer at fourteen years old - well, they had thought he was guilty at the time, his proven innocence didn’t negate her bravery.

Fear was something she could overcome. Fred Weasley’s presence gave Hermione the urge to throw things, and that was not so easily conquered. She was too physically drained to deal with the Weasley Twins - especially Fred - the most infuriating git to grace these halls in centuries. After Voldemort of course, _Nasty Bugger._

It wasn’t always this way; she spent the first two years of Hogwarts completely indifferent to twins. She interacted with them on occasion, laughing along genially as they affectionately teased their brother and her dear friend, Ron.

Once upon a time, she’d ignored their pranks and troubles. She’d never admit so, but she’d found one or two of them to be funny. Even now with her near hatred of the boy, a glimmer of a smile ghosted her face as she thought of the twins interrupting her second-year transfiguration class to rambunctiously flirt with their Head of House. She could have sworn she had seen the stern witches lip twitch as they delivered their Honeyduke’s chocolates, and invited her to be their (yes, shared) Valentine. 

She had seen little issue with their jokes as nobody had ever been harmed really, an act her bleeding heart could never abide by. So, she’d never had a cause to interfere with their shenanigans. Well, until later that is.

* * *

It all started at the beginning of her third year, she was comfortably nestled in a bed of cushions while the rest of her house had taken the stands in support of their team as they practiced for an upcoming match. Thus, she was been treated with a vacant common room, an interesting tome and a resounding quiet. The perfect ingredients for a day of relaxation.

That morning Ron had christened her ‘anti-social’, which was an argument lacking any merit despite Harry’s backing. She was _always_ there for the house games, even though she despised Quidditch. She simply saw no point in watching the mundane strategy planning by Oliver and company for three hours – the snitch could be caught three-hundred-and-eighty-two times and the practice would still carry on. Ron stupidly thought she hated Quidditch because she could fly as well as a pig with paper wings.

Her poetry writing skills were equivalent to that of a toddler, yet she still loved to read it. Quidditch was boring, and stupidly risky – that was all. It was a show of power, and she’d never been one for showboating. She was glad Harry was a brilliant seeker, and she always cheered for Harry. His success allowed her to return to her reading, a glorious victory for all involved.

She was enjoying her alone time, even if Ron had soured her mood earlier. Normally, she would be so trapped in her reading, everything around her ceased to exist. Part-way through a third edition of _Morag’s Mystifying Mental Maladies_ , a suffering whimper sound broke the dead silence, and wrenched her heart towards it and away from the pages.

Hunched in a chair was a light-blonde frizzy haired girl with her head enveloped in an oversized bucket. Hermione was not a mean person, even if she briefly considered ignored it – maybe the girl wanted to be alone, who was she to deny her the right to wallow in privacy?

The girl pulled her head from the bucket, which was twice her size, and revealed her puffy-eyed face to Hermione. It was Mellie Morgans, a first year muggleborn student. She made a point of getting to know all muggle-born students within her house, new and old.

She did not have a saviour complex or anything, there was no harm in watching out for the more vulnerable students or getting to know people who could understand her a little. Precisely how she had come to know the little blue-eyed witch with wetted cheeks. The tiny girl with an almost mouse-like nose, and wild unkempt hair sticking to her forehead and flaying outwards in all directions. It felt all too familiar to her, which was how she found herself rubbing the girls back as spewed into the bucket.

The blonde frizzy-haired girl opened her glistening eyes as the wave of vomiting passed and she sobbed her tale of woe to Hermione. To this day, Hermione had never felt such rage for another student. In the privacy of her own mind, she would say her actions that followed, though justified, were over the top.

The young muggleborn had fallen victim to the Weasley twins and their experimental vomit-inducing candies. She was almost hysterical in retelling, fearing her humiliation would impede on her ability to make new friends after she spewed the contents of her breakfast in front of her entire house. As Hermione looked into her blown blue-eyes, she was instantly transported back to a bathroom with an angry troll pounding to door of her cubicle and not a sinner around to hear her cries for help.

Then the memories came faster and faster, every moment of loneliness played in her mind and refused to stop. Few understand how it felt to be tormented for a freakish nature from the very first day of school.

Then one day everything changed. A cat transformed before her hazel eyes delivering promises of a fresh start with people just like her, and she was no freak at all – she was special – she was a witch. she was more astounded that there were people like her than she was learning she was a witch; you cannot blow up Ollie Parker's winning science project from sheer jealousy and not question your existence. As if ant-farms were _revolutionary_ , she scoffed.

So, when she was told of a magical school with Europe's largest library, she was practically delirious. The night before she left for Hogwarts, her grandmother had threatened to sedate her if she wouldn’t go to sleep. Could she be blamed? She was going to finally be around people who would understand her! Sadly, she would learn a lesson that would stay with her for the rest of her life -fresh starts were not always refreshing.

Yes, it was all frighteningly familiar for her.

Hermione did not have a saviour complex, but she’d be damned if she let another witch be antagonised by some cocky red-headed boy without trying to help her. She quickly ran to her assorted potions she kept in her dorm and gave the witch a small vial to settle her stomach. Mellie tipped the vial into her mouth without question.

Once the hiccupping subsided enough, she latched on to her wrist and dragged her to the portrait door.

“You’ve spilled my wine, have you no respect?” The Fat Lady berated the pair, as they rushed through her portrait abruptly. Hermione ignored her; she was too busy to coddle the Fat Lady’s precious ego. They flew down the sliding staircases and beelined to the half-packed Quidditch Pitch, despite Mellie’s vehement protests.

"Wh-what are you doing?" the small girl cooed behind her. If Hermione were in her right mind, she would have knelt like her grandmother would and calmed her with soothing sounds, and comforting pats. She was not in her right mind; she was in a blind fury.

"Do you want to be remembered as the witch who spewed in front of her entire house?" She snapped and pulled the girl harshly by the arm to stand in front of her. The girl stood on shaky legs, but her head was unbent. She might have given her a proud smile too if she were not busy scouting for a patch of brazen red hair.

Hermione had these inexplicable bouts of magic on occasion, they were more complex than accidental magic and far harder to explain. It was probably a very normal thing that happened occasionally, she just hadn’t read that chapter yet. It was as if her magic and her were two different people, and her magic was three steps ahead of. She hated the feeling, but today was not about her. Her hair began to swirl threateningly around her on the still October day.

She could rarely command a broom towards her hand from three inches away, yet her anger had commanded a school broom from a great distance without her aid. A broomstick detached itself from the shed across from her and darted forward.

Her jaw clenched when she spotted the wispy red strands of the lone Weasley twin. Her fear of heights was forgotten as she climbed the broom mindlessly. With her eyes set on her target, she ascended to the sky in her regulation school skirt.

The magnetically drawn bludgers began orbiting around her. She zoomed by the protesting players to the red-haired menace who had his back to her - a terrible mistake on his part. The players began to dodge her as the bludgers began gaining speed, few were brave enough to try to bat them away, Those few were unceremoniously pushed away in warning by her magic, a flare of wind driving them back. _Do not come closer,_ it screamed.

Her magic craved havoc and she would grant its wish.

* * *

Fred tried to find the source of the mass hysteria in the stands, he searched for any hints of green and silver within the panicked crowds, but it was a beautiful sea of red and gold. He was oblivious to the danger advancing behind him.

He felt it, more than anything else.

An indescribable feeling climbing his skin, every wizard could feel their magic within. Flowing in rivets and merging through the tip of their wands, it was strange to feel magic outside of his own body and something he heard was common with dark objects. This did not feel dark as such, it was by no means friendly but not dark. He turned towards the aura – well, that made no sense at all. What was she on the bloody pitch for? Had Oliver gone batty? Let’s just add Filtch to team as well.

"Granger?" his red brows furrowed, why had she stolen the bludgers? She hadn’t a clue how this game worked at all. He’d learn she’d wasn’t her for that game, she was here to play cat and mouse.

"Arrogant-" she roared. A bludger dislodged from the circling danger and aimed true, Fred swerved right and narrowly avoided a collision. A loud rumbling sound was heard from behind him. "-Overgrown-" the next bludger zoomed faster, disappointed by the failure of its predecessor. Fred reacted faster now he knew of the coming danger, and he bent low to the handle of his broom. The bludger crashed viscously behind him.

"- Dim-witted -" he inhaled deeply. Two bludgers sprung free, they interweaved with one another before veering towards him. He inverted his broom to hang from it, he hoped to confuse the enchanted bludgers. It worked as he hoped it would. "- Thick-skulled bullying... greasy git! -" she snarled, as the remaining bludgers paused mid-air. He righted his broom and redirected the blood flow throughout his body, he felt dizzy which really isn’t what you want when there’s an unexplainably angry girl firing bludgers at your head.

Fred Weasley was sure of one thing, his mother's enchanted clock had one half of the dynamic duo in the centre of Mortal Peril. The Weasley Matron might have been trying to break wards constructed by the founders themselves at that very moment, ready to rescue her umpteenth favourite child. There were several popping noises as the remaining bludgers doubled - No - _tripled?_ He shook his head to stop the dizzy feeling.

He was sure of something else too - Fred Weasley was in _terrible trouble_.

It was time to take his troubles to the sky. He kicked his broom and left the disgruntled witch in his dust. He frantically searched for an exit as the angry buzzing behind him grew closer. He edged around the enclosed field and flew near the fleeing stands of Gryffindors. Ignoring the shrieking, he dipped below the stands as a bludger barreled through the wooden support _far_ too close to his head.

He tried to gain momentum, but Fred was no seeker, his bulky frame was an irksome hindrance slowing him down. The dark underbelly of the ageing Quidditch Stands, and soaring speed were obscuring his vision. The world was moving too fast to think. He paused to regain his senses – he needed something, and he needed it post-haste.

He needed a Fred Weasley sized exit.

A gush of wind brushed his chin. The wall before him crumbled with the force of the heat-seeking demon balls bursting through. He swung behind a wooden beam for protection as they barrelled through the wall. Well – that hole could fit every Weasley through it!

That was a big task. He smiled, and thanked the fates for allowing him the grace of seeing another day.

He appeared from the jagged hole created by the bludgers, he was surrounded by a comforting silence – a good sign, he’d outsmarted the bludgers. He ventured towards the centre of the field, ready to boast his survival to his adoring fans.

He thanked them too soon.

A sneaky bludger clipped the front of his regulation broom and splintered the wooden handle with a clean snap, sending his broom onto a fierce tailspin. He was ejected from the broom and landed harshly on the sanded ground of the Quidditch Field. He groaned as his body sung with pain. His eyes gradually opened to the clear caerulean skies of the beautiful October day.

A small black dot besmirched the empty sky, the glaring sun obscured his vision. The dot began to grow as it came closer. Eventually, the shape of a woman with swirling brown locks formed, the sun highlighted the streaks of golden tones in her tumbling curls.

"Next time, pass your dreadful experiments to someone who deserves it. No! better yet- someone who can defend themselves with more than bloody levitation spell!" she hissed, before she jumped from her broom, and puffed her chin up before storming away. What just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is!
> 
> I do edit myself with the aid of my trusty friend, Microsoft Word. The problem with people who self-edit is, our eyes often betray is and miss glaring issues with the text. Let me know if your fresh eyes spot any problems, Word and I, missed.
> 
> I really hope you liked it. It's a more plot focused fiction, but I promise I won't neglect Fred/Hermione. I don't know if it's just me, but I get dreadfully bored of googly eyes and subtle smiles constantly. I just need mooore.
> 
> I'll update weekly, maybe more than once a week, if I'm anxious to move the story on. I have a few chapters ready, it's very hard to not post all at once. I just want to get into the thick of it, you know?
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed it! Have I said that already? Well, leave a review or Kudos if the wind moves you.


	2. Treacle Tarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione must face the consequences of her actions on the Quidditch pitch. Fred makes a suggestion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Again. I'm aware that I posted less than five hours ago but like I said, I'm anxious as heck to get more out. I just seen the lonely single chapter and thought she deserved a friend.
> 
> I will, marauders honor, start obeying a schedule. 
> 
> Otherwise, I'll give myself zero time to edit the next chapters. Hope you like it.

Life was chockful of regrets and generally experienced in one of two ways. There was the instant kind like touching a hot plate or petting a stray dog to only be bitten in service for your kindness. Then there was the reflective regret; a type of regret you are blind to, where the consequences won’t settle until well after the event and only then would you realize there was a better way. 

Hermione’s actions on the Quidditch fell into a lesser spoken of regret – the denial regret. This differed from the other two because the person knew there would be consequences, knew there was a better way and knew they should regret it. They simply refused to acknowledge their subconscious thought, and that was very much how Hermione felt about it all. 

Returning to her common room, she could hear the wheels of gossip spinning from the whispering bystanders she passed and blocked them out. The problem wasn’t a problem if you never paid attention.

In all honesty, she was far too tired to think on it. Her body felt the effect of her thunderous outburst, all her magical muscles were stretched beyond their reach, leaving her a listless shell as she walked away from the Quidditch Pitch. 

She knew there were many lectures from her best friends in her future, mainly from Ron as it was his brother she’d faced. She’d need some rest before she could manage either of them. 

She entered through the portrait with a half-hearted apology to the Fat Lady for her chaotic exodus earlier. True to her house, the Fat Lady stubbornly crossed her arms and snubbed her apology. The right thing was to stay and assuage the portrait to her side with a sincere apology, something better than ‘ _ sorry about earlier’ _ . 

Alas, that was a job for a well-rested Hermione. 

She had barely moved four feet before the portrait door opened and her chance to rest would be swiped from under weary feet. Stood in the doorway was her Transfiguration Professor in curling midnight robes and her classic pointed, round-brimmed hat.

“Miss Granger. If you would follow me, please," said Professor McGonagall, her Scottish brogue lacked any affection, replaced with the flat monotone of a bringer of doom. 

Knowing she would be in trouble was an ocean away from receiving said punishment.

She simpered and bowed her head to avoid the eyes of the stern witch as began her long walk to the plank. She'd never survive a glance at her eyes if there was a tinge of disappointment laying there without uttering a thousand apologies, even if they were hollow words.

The Fat Lady gave her sympathetic look - earlier grievances abandoned, for she understood exactly what it meant when the head of house came knocking. She gave her a sad smile before she followed her professor to the familiar gargoyles of the Headmaster’s office. Harry would get a kick out of 'treacle tarts' being enjoyed by Dumbledore, too. 

As the stone guards parted to reveal the barren staircase to her courtroom, the climbing panic soared to a new height. 

See, Hermione always toed the line. At times, she had shamed those who were callous enough to break the few rules set out for them. Of course, she had yet to see the rule opposing the destruction of the Quidditch Pitch, but it was most definitely frowned upon. She doubted there would be any manipulation of her rule-bending to earn house points today – she was no Harry Potter.

“After you,” said her professor. Hermione gulped, the time to face the music was upon here. With her heart heavier than all the gold in the Malfoy vaults, she trudged up the stairs. The door to his office was already open and in the middle of the trinket-laden room was her Professor, stroking the feathered head of his familiar. Behind her Professor McGonagall coughed, ending the murmured conversation between the man and his bird. 

"Ah Miss Granger, take a seat if you would. Lemon drop?" Professor Dumbledore had an affectionate smile adorning his face as he strolled to his desk and held the proffered sweet to her. She felt immense relief, it would take more to destroy her reputation with him. 

She kindly declined his offer and took her seat in the armchair opposing his desk. McGonagall decided to loom like a threatening storm cloud behind the headmaster as he sat in his own chair. When she saw two newly conjured armchairs to her left, her curiosity flared, who else was coming to witness her strip down? 

That same curiosity became venomous as a Hufflepuff prefect lead the two Gryffindor menaces in. A huff escaped her throat without permission. If they were holding their breath for an apology to the twins, they should’ve had them accompanied by Madam Pinch as they’d require multiple resuscitations. 

Fred or George – who cared - sauntered over and gracelessly slumped in the chair beside her. His legs were spread to near opposing sides of the room, pushing his body to consume as much of the room as his mortal legs allowed. He may as well have put his feet on Dumbledore desk. Her lips curled in distaste.

"Not that I’m sad, but what happened to her halo of death balls? Lost in the wash?" Fred drawled, named by the barely visible crescent scar upon his chin.

"Abominable git," she whispered to herself, but not quietly enough to escape the notice of her professor.

"Miss Granger, that's quite enough," said McGonagall, Hermione looked to her professor to see the disappointment she’d refused to look at earlier. She hung her head and submitted to the woman before her, lest she make her punishment twice as grim. 

"What's  _ 'adobo-nimble’ mean _ , Gred?" asked George, the nonsensical name triggered her rolling eyes. For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom how Molly had not smothered them in the crib. 

"Why devilishly Handsome, of course, Forge,” said Fred, he was completely unaffected by the scoff of disbelief from his right. 

Dumbledore seemed to enjoy the jovial energy the twins exuded as he smiled genially to them. She couldn’t relate to him. In fact, Hermione was hard-pressed to recall how she had coped with their presence.

"Hmph, very clever,” he said, and wove his fingers together across his antique desk. “Alas, we must discuss what occurred today. We have heard some troubling accounts but would like your accounts before any action is taken,” he adopted a serious expression. “Miss Granger, you may proceed," Dumbledore inclined his head to her. 

"Well, I was reading–" she began.

"–No surprise there. It’s an  _ ailment _ ," George interrupted with a long-winded sigh. She resisted any retaliation, it hadn’t exactly worked in her favour earlier on, had it? 

Whatever way she looked at it, she knew she’d indulged the boys enough for one day. This was her chance to argue her case - the evidence of her guilt would only strengthen if she lost her cool to two people with the joint intelligence of a marsupial. She ploughed onwards as if nothing had happened. 

“Reading  _ 'Morag’s Mystifying Mental Maladie _ –" she said. 

"–See? A devastatingly boring disease. Seeking a cure? You should look for _ 'Certain Poles in Certain Hol _ –" interrupted George once again emulating false concern for her wellbeing. 

"–When Mellie Morgans came into the common room. She'd been given some sort of potioned candy. She was distraught and crying as she'd been trying to make friends, only to vomit in front of  _ everyone _ -"

"–Terrible way to make friends, truly," said Fred, a hand laid over his heart to bolster his sincerity. She held her breath and tried to stem the dangerous red creeping up her neck. The next interruption would render all her efforts futile. 

"Why would you let her do such a thing, Granger? And  _ we're _ apopo-nimbler? Ridiculous _ , _ " finished George. 

The red burst.

She was out of her chair instantly – she could deal with their childish interruptions, but she’d be damned if they sullied her with a crime of their machinations.

"It was  _ you  _ two that did this! You think you're funny but you’re not –” she tried for words to sting them, but flashy comebacks were a deck of cards that she’d never played. “– You're egotistical, maniacal… and you’re bullies!" Her wand hooted from her sleeve, pleading for release.

"Sit down, Miss Granger!” Professor McGonagall commanded, while deftly moving around the headmaster and ushering the stubborn Gryffindor back to her seat. She refused to see the twins beam in victory, she stubbornly stared at the patterns of her skirt. 

Professor Dumbledore remained in his seat as his deputy wrangled the fleeing flock. Frankly, Hermione wished they’d taken her points and sent her on, rather than continue the charade. The burden of evidence was stacked against her, having her relay the story while the twins pounced her at every opportunity was beating the horse until it disintegrated. 

"The statements of entering the pitch without permission,” she looked to her professor as he spoke, his gaze lacked the twinkling warmth of his blue eyes. 

“Firing bludgers at Mister’s Weasley using non-verbal magic – they’re accurate, yes?" His chair squeaked as he leaned forward.

"Not entirely,” she defended, his silvery brow perked. “It was Fred, George wasn’t there" She crossed her arms protectively. It sounded infinitely less heroic when summed up as such. Professor Dumbledore leaned back in his chair as his eyes slowly scanned each of the dastardly duo.

"Interesting. Interesting indeed…” he hummed to himself, his eyes returned to her. “If you would, how can you tell that it was Fred?" His tone buoyed with interest like he was asking her for her secret. He was asking for a secret. So indistinguishable were the identical twins, their own mother had yet to figure it out.

It wasn't a superpower, it was something anyone with eyes could do. Fortunately, on a visit to the optometrist, he had proclaimed her eyes medically perfect and with that weapon in her arsenal, the crescent scar on his chin had never stood a chance.

"I'd tell you, but then they would know, sir."

The Headmaster smiled devilishly as the warmth of his eyes returned. His eyes flicked to the silent twins as though debating dismissing the twins entirely in favour of her intellect. An obvious cough from McGonagall drew him back as he took the mantle of Headmaster once more. 

"I understand wanting to stand up for those who cannot themselves, Miss Granger. Disregarding that, you should not have done so. I'm afraid, you'll be punished. As will–" 

"–Albus, I have an idea for that particular matter," said Fred, he leaned his elbows across his thighs. Every eye flew to him.

Dumbledore’s thickened eyebrow arched, gesturing for the boy to continue. Hermione hadn’t the foggiest what was going to fall from his insolent lips. 

Even George seemed uneasy, though his infallible trust in his twin over-rides any designs to stop him. That would shatter the illusion, wouldn’t it?

"I propose an alternative, sir. Miss Granger should accompany me to Hogsmeade,” Fred said, he seemed to be serious about the bile he’d vomited. 

“I can safely say that was not what I’d had in mind, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore laughed from surprise, while McGonagall had the appearance of a pressure cooker ready to blow. Fred shrugged his shoulder casually.

“Seems like the best option for me and being the injured party,” he scratched his neck. “I think my opinion should be the most valued here,” Hermione’s jaw fell –  _ injured bloody party _ ? 

"Are you lack-witted? Did you leave your senses in the burrow behind with the few brain cells you have?" Hermione hissed. 

She looked to McGonagall begging for adult intervention, but McGonagall was busy rubbing the temples of her skull.

“You seem to be against it,” he said quizzically, she whipped her head to Fred. He could have asked to line the barrel of a gun to the head of a squirrel, and she would protest less than she would now. 

“Against it?” she laughed in disbelief or mania; she didn’t rightly know. Fred nodded his head. “I'd sooner go to  _ Azkaban _ .” 

"Well, I was thinking of Madam Puddifoots,” he tilted his head. “Dementors would suck the fun right out of it, I would think," Fred said, he tapped his chin in consideration. 

The twilight zones. That's where she'd fallen. All occurring in front of the man who defeated Grindelwald with nothing but his wand and prowess. She must have misremembered leaving the Quidditch pitch, she was really in the Hospital Wing unconscious after being hit by a fallen wood post. 

Maybe the day never happened at all. She’d somehow discovered the twin Mirror of Erised, which brought to life the opposite of your greatest dreams. Ah, if only a quick pinch to her thigh could guide her to the beautiful mundane of her normal life – couldn’t hurt to try.

When she wasn’t sucked from the illusion, there was no denying her reality. Her terrorizing, chilling, and extremely horrifying reality.

Her eyes skipped beyond Fred, whose staring was frankly unnerving, to his brother George. George's looked like a soldier who’d just heard they’d lost the war after winning every skirmish.

They normally thought as one and now there was a noticeable separation of minds. It would seem he was in his own twilight zone. Though, decidedly less horrific than hers.

She looked beseechingly to her professors. McGonagall had yet to appear from behind her hands so there was little chance of help from her. Professor Dumbledore didn’t hide, he was enjoying his mid-day entertainment. 

She was standing alone against a two-hundred-foot tidal wave and all she could do was let the water take her. Hermione slumped in her chair and wondered how she’d gotten here. When she opened her wardrobe this morning, had she missed the escape of a Fred shaped boggart?

"Are you a boggart?" She asked desperately, turning to Fred. Dumbledore muffled his laughter through his wizened beard.

"All wizard, baby," Fred clucked his tongue. If only casting Ridikulus would end this elaborate prank. 

George may be three years behind but she knew what this was. A convoluted prank designed to take the only possession she had - her sane mind. With that in mind, she would break the cycle before he could complete his masterpiece. 

"Excuse me, Professor. if you could assign me the required detentions, or any other punishment," She said, angling her body away from Fred's resolute brown eyes. “So, I can go shower –  _ extensively _ .”

"Ever heard that before, Minerva?" Dumbledore smiled a secret smile, towards the stern witch who crawled further into her hand cocoon. He turned back to Hermione. "Yes dear, we’ve all learned some lessons today. Fifty points from each of you should suffice, I think.” Her eyes blew wide, that was more than their house had. 

“That said, I politely decline your offer, Mister Weasley. It is not for me to decide such things, you see." He turned to Fred with a humorful smile.

"Not to worry Albus, still be a delightful story for the children one day," Whether he smiled, or cringey wink, she never saw. She was sure he was grinning like a dud. She'd rather mate with the Giant Squid. She muttered as much.

"That's enough, Mister Weasley," McGonagall had found her voice, but it was an hour too late. It seemed Hermione’s mental health was not as valuable as McGonagall’s need for decorum. 

"Don't be jealous, __ Minnie _. _ We can go to the three broomsticks," George said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mister Weasley. I'd rather not lose the house cup for another year, so if you please,” she said, holding her hand out to the door. Dumbledore wanted the twins to spread their mischief around him some more judging by his wrinkling eyes. 

George saluted to his chief and walked to the top of the stairwell, before he was out of sight, he called back once more

" _ Alright _ … Hogshead then. Your choice,  _ Minnie _ ," George winked, before vanishing down the stairs to avoid further strife.

“Damned ghosts,” she muttered McGonagall, luckily for them she didn’t take any more points as their House was sure to be aflame with their null house points already. 

Hermione would leave as soon as the other __ twin had evacuated to grant a sufficient head start. She was sure to lose more points when their frozen bodies were found by Peeves.

"See you at home," Fred winked to her before his grand escape with a conciliatory bow to the room. 

She’d hex him. she’d hex his brother for sharing his face, she’d hex Ron for his red hair, and she’d curse Molly for giving life to them.

"Funny thing, hmm? The cyclic nature of life," Dumbledore said, his lips disappeared beneath his silvery beard. McGonagall squeezed his shoulder in solidarity.

Every student at Hogwarts knew of his penchant for spouting wisdom only he could appreciate - at least he had McGonagall. Hermione muttered a goodbye, eager to escape the gloomy air that'd had taken hold of her dazed professors.

She pushed the problems of tomorrow from her mind as she left the office as they were exactly that – a problem for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore was always a dubious character in my opinion. Adored the man, would've followed him to the ends if it wasn't for The Deathly Hallows. I suppose that was the point. Blind loyalty is not always a good thing.
> 
> No idea, where that tangent plopped from. Anyway, hoped you liked it - it was somewhat shorter, had I put more sections in, it would have been too long. I'll update next week - if i can stop myself lol. Leave a kudos/review, love reading your comments! Criticism welcome, even harsh ones.
> 
> Edited as of 17/05/2020


	3. Scent of a Rodent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione deals with the reaction of her fellow classmates and friends, to her public feud with Fred Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Glad to bring an update to you. It's technically not late, because I'd never set a specific day, I think. If I did - delete that from your mind. Life happens. I spent the last few days battling a nasty vomiting bug. In that case, shit happens. Rather crude but sadly true.
> 
> So, again. Microsoft word is my only Beta. Feel free to correct any mistakes, though I don't think there is. Hope so, anyway.
> 
> Hope you like it!

A dreamless sleep was had. She awoke the next morning and for a moment, life was forgotten. Her body was limp and her mind blank. Her bones humming as she stretched languorously in her maroon sheets. A ragged sigh escaping as her back arched in pleasure. She closed her eyes and mellowed into her relaxation for a moment more.

"What happened yesterday, Mi-Mi?" The high tenor of Lavender brown came from the foot of her bed. She opened her hooded eyes with great effort. Her roommates stood around her bed waiting. Parvati's hand on her hips like a scolding mother. This did not bode well for the rest of today. Tomorrow's problems officially became today's.

"I hate that name, Lavender," she lifted herself to the foot of her bed. She'd rather not be interrogated first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, Lavender was an utter gossip. If she got what she wanted, the word would spread. Hopefully, disenchanting her schoolmates from interrogating her as well. "The Weasley twins picked on the first year, so I gave Fred a piece of my mind. Nothing more to it, really. Oh wait - Dumbledore took fifty points from each of us. I'll earn mine back, I swear, " She said, making no promises of the remaining hundred. She truly was sorry. One-hundred and fifty points were taken. It was a high price to pay.

"Yes, but why?" Lavender stuttered. Hand waving through the air, grasping at invisible questions to hurl at the yawning brunette.

"I told you," Hermione had summarised the events succinctly. Nothing more, nothing less. Anything else invites more questions, more gossip and more hushed whispers. "Nothing else, that you didn’t see already. Last time I checked, you had two working eyes, Brown."

"Yes - but - how?" Her nasal voice climbing in exasperation. She should have known this would be her reception. Hermione shrugged her shoulders in response, side-stepping the girls currently blocking her exit. She closed the door of the bathroom quickly. Hoping against hope, that Lavender’s need for gossip didn’t over-ride her social etiquette. She leaned against the door for support, dreaming of the good ole’ days.

Hermione had come to a silent agreement with her teenage roommates some time ago. She did not disturb them, and they left her be. In her very first year, she can admit the isolation had hurt a little. She'd heard she'd have a shared room, and she'd been thrilled _._ It was one of those new opportunities her professor spoke of. They would be in close proximity for six years. Surely time would force camaraderie between the girls, wouldn't it? Sadly, the invitation for midnight rendezvous with chocolate frogs and gossip, always missed her owl. Her bushy mane was too complicated to participate in makeovers, it would seem.

After some failed attempts to participate, she’d had enough. Finished parading herself, she decided she would live peacefully alone. She'd even shared gossip with them, like a tittering idiot. Their behaviour spoke clear as day. She was not their girl. She wouldn't fawn over anyone, she affirmed to herself. It was against her nature to do so. Once, she'd become friends with Harry, she regretted ever trying to engage the girls. She witnessed the true effect of idle gossip. If she regretted ever trying to fit in, it increased ten-fold as her friend walked the halls with cowed shoulders.

So, their lives moved adjacent to one another. That was fine, she decided. She had her boys and that's all she needed. Female companionship was overrated. They could paint their nails and live their dreadfully dull lives. She’d fight trolls and hunt basilisks, instead. They'd exchanging basic pleasantries, and share their shower schedules That suited Hermione perfectly _._ Though _,_ when she returned from France this year, it became clear that it no longer suited the girls. French Muggle shampoos in hand, the road through puberty become less craggy for her. Hermione was a different girl, to the naked eye. Her hair had become soft and loose under the correct care regimen. her body stretched, and her remaining puppy started to slip away. Giving way to a woman's curves. Her uniform sat correctly now, the widening of her hips flaring her skirt.

Appearance was not a priority for her. Shiny hair could not defeat a basilisk, any more than straightened teeth could. She embraced her sharp wit and library of knowledge more than ever. Her confidence was one of strength, knowledge and integrity. She could still admit, she was happy with the new changes. There was something wrong with hating your appearance. It was perfectly okay to look in a mirror and be happy.

She'd come back shiny and new. Falsely leading the girls to make a conscious effort to include her. She’d emerged from her hair cocoon, and they had realised there was indeed, a third girl living with them. That was not an over-grown sheep in need of a shear occupying the third bed. It was a fifteen-year-old girl, who was using the wrong shampoo. The offers for the company to Hogsmeade were rejected, of course. She didn't need to be friends with people whose morality lay with the quality of one’s skin. People who could not see beyond veneers to the identity within, were not people she needed around her.

Hence, the new perceived familiarity the girls adopted. They would stop her on her journey to bed most days, with an update of the day’s best gossip. Spreading tales of Millicent Bulstrode’s embarrassing attempt to ask a Hufflepuff to Hogsmeade. She'd ration out a few non-pulsed responses, full of feigned amazement. Then resume her nightly rituals, as if they'd not said a thing to her. She'd explained the changes to Harry and Ron. How utterly vain her roommates were and the like. Ron muttered something about women and madness. That was a response she'd anticipated, and thoughtlessly snubbed. Harry though, well, he was far too trusting. He'd suggested giving them a chance. Maybe, they _matured,_ he'd said. As with all things, she knew better.

The only thing that was maturing in that room, was Lavender’s ever-expanding chest. Still, familiarity aside, the interrogation gave her an idea of how her day would go. It would be predictably dreadful.

* * *

Her quill scribbled vigorously, as Professor McGonagall explained the art of animagus transformation.. Her professor was lecturing on the properties of the mandrake leaf, along with the difficulties faced with a dried leaf. A furry tongue was beyond undesirable, she thought. Judging by the disgusted sounds from the students around her, they thought so, too. The theory was relatively straight forward, though an arduously long process, without question. An incredible difficult art to master, but the rewards were worth it. Something she may consider in her later years.

She was studiously ignoring the paper birds Ron had been firing at her since the beginning of class. She had an idea what the messages were about, based on the furious glances from Ron through her peripheral vision. She doubted Ron knew Hermione at all - as if she’d engage in classroom shenanigans like this. During Transfiguration, no less. Divination, though, it was welcomed. She’d rather listen to Lavender, than that daft bint and her opened third eye. If she could open her first two, she may see how absurd she looked in the mirror. A particularly enraged paper bird began to attack her temple, demanding her attention. She was sure the bird was feeding on Ron’s irritation through his spell-casting. Sighing, she grabbed the intrusive bird needling her forehead, opening the missive and praying her professor could not see.

_Meet me outside of class. Ron._

She knew Ron had seen her open the letter. Still, he’d yet to take his narrowed eyes from her. If it was any other person, she may have been nervous by the unending stares. She was more disappointed at his shirking of their lesson, to be honest. He'd never be an Auror as he hoped, if he couldn't pay attention in his classes. What if he came across a violent animagus? He'd have no idea what to do. All because he wanted to shout at Hermione for a perceived slight against his family, when she had the right of the situation. She wasn't worried at all. This was Ron and she knew him better than most did. He was quick to anger, slow to forgiveness and born with a personal bias in regards to his family. There was a simple magic to appeasing Ron. It required no spell work, ingredients or incantations. Confusion was the key. She had to speak elaborately and quickly, lose his interest and downplay the entire situation while appeasing him. She’d apologise to him emphatically, without admitting fault, that is.

‘ _I’m sorry I hurt you.’_

‘ _I’m sorry you feel that way, Ronald.’_

A broad and sweeping apology. If all else failed, Gifts could work too. He particularly favoured gifts of the chocolate persuasion, even better if they held the shape of an amphibian. She kept a few emergency chocolate frogs in her bag at all times, for when Ron was in a particularly foul mood. Those moods could almost always be attributed to low glucose levels. That being said, she was rather busy today. The time-turner was strictly to be used for classwork and not for personal use. She’d made a promise as such, owing to the responsibility she’d been given.

Time was a fickle thing. Her professor had already explained the cosmic disasters that could ensue if she changed anything in the past. It was nerve-wrecking when she thought about the ramifications of accidentally destroying the timeline. The first few weeks of the term still remained a jumble in her mind. Trying to avoid being seen in areas she’d just left. Slinking down hallways and trying to keep track of whereabouts all her past lives. She worried if she was destroying herself sometimes, as she split herself across the grounds of Hogwarts.

She wasn’t _technically_ breaking the rules, if she allowed Ron to delay her. Technically, she would be using the time-turner to get to class on time. When McGonagall signalled the end of class, a flourish of her wand opening the classroom door. She slowly collected her items, allowing Ron enough time to intercept her exit. If he didn’t _,_ well, she would go to class. No harm done. She gingerly gathered her quills, placing them carefully and slowly in her bag. One by One. An arm yanked hers, forcing her to turn around. She didn’t have to look at him to know who’d grabbed her.

“We need to talk,” Ron said. His features tightly knitting together, scrunching his face into a pug-like appearance. Harry strangely stood in the background, remaining a neutral party. She’d thought Harry would have some opinions to share, too.

“I gathered as much, what with all of the paper birds stabbing my forehead,” she tried to pull her arm from his grasp, but his grip tightened on her with intention.

“If you opened them, they wouldn’t stab you. _Now_ , _would they?_ ” He stepped forward, encroaching her personal space. “Why’d you attack George?”

“For your information, Ronald - It wasn’t _George._ It was Fred. He pranked a first year, and i told him off. He wasn’t hurt. Maybe his ego was bruised, but he’s medically sound. Dumbledore took fifty house points. Then, Fred asked me if I'd go Hogsmeade. So, if he’s not upset, I don’t see why you should be.” He dropped her arm like a hot poker, stepping away from her. She soothed the skin of her burning arm, while Ron did what appeared to be mental equations as his face shifted wildly from one state of confusion to the next. If it had confused her _,_ it would downright baffle Ron.

“ _Hogsmeade?_ ” Asked Harry, his mouth falling open. Filling in for Ron as he stood there, all words stolen from him.

“For a butterbeer _,_ to be specific. Don’t ask me why - I think it was a prank of some sort – it was rather embarrassing _,_ ” She admitted, cheeks flushing a violent shade of red marring her olive skin.

“Hardly meant to ask _you_ out,” Ron said, sparing a moment to laugh at the idea. Recovering from his shock, he spoke as though it was unreasonable that someone would do such a thing.

“Why’s that, Ronald?” she asked lightly, spreading the breadcrumbs at his feet. Harry had more foresight, seeming to notice the danger zone Ron was veering into. His eyes exploding as he tried to lean into Ron’s ear. Ron just shrugged his fretting friend away, he scoffed and began to smile, enjoying the seemingly friendly air. 

“Well, you said it yourself – to embarrass you, obviously _._ I mean - its Fred! I heard he went Hogsmeade with _Angelina Johnson._ She’s bloody fit, too,” Ron laughed. A faraway look as he imagines the older Gryffindor. The absurd notion that she could fall into the same bracket as the quidditch player, seemed rather amusing to Ron.

"Ron, mate,” Harry hurriedly spoke, pulling his friend back from the seething witch. Hermione’s breathe whistled through her nostrils.

"So, what, Ronald? Fred is too good _for me?_ or I’m not as good as Angelina Johnson? Hmm?” Ron stood his ground, as she stepped closer. Seemingly blind to her anger or stupidly unafraid.

“You know what I mean. He’s Fred and well, you're you _..._ It’s not a bad thing, ‘mione,” he said, stroking her upper arm soothingly with a small smile. _You?_

“Well. Aren’t I _glad_ , it’s not a _bad thing_ ,” She pulled her arm from him, grinding her teeth. Ignoring Harry calling her name hurriedly. She stormed to her Ancient Runes class. Her angry footfalls echoing through the empty halls, looking for a hidden alcove to use her time-turner without notice. How dare he.

Bad thing. Bad thing! What was it exactly, that was not a _bad_ _thing?_

Hermione was not delusional. She was not the most attractive girl in Hogwarts, but she wasn’t the worst. Besides, what made her unworthy of _Fred Weasley_? He was far too tall, a bit too bulky and his hair - god that hair. Sure, he was somewhat attractive, but everything else was rather unremarkable. His pranks had an intelligent quality to them, as well, she supposes. It would take skill and intellect to create spells and new magical inventions. Other than that, he was an arrogant bully who thought far too highly of himself. Frankly, any girl chasing him thought low of herself.

“Pound for the hound?” Fred appeared from beneath a long tapestry. She startled, her wand springing from her holster, battle-ready. He lifted his hands quickly in a gesture of appeasement. Never straying beyond his position. He seemed to remember his last experience with her magic.

Her fingers slackened, as she realised there were no physical dangers present. The only threats were to her mental wellness. She needed to shake him. She couldn’t rightly use her time turner in front of him. His broad shoulders loosened, as her wand slowly drifted to her side. The idea that someone was threatened by her was an odd comfort.

“What are you talking about?” Did she even want to know?

“‘ _A pound for the hound’_ , Dads always saying it. Muggle saying - means you’re thinking a lot. Need a wizard one for us, I reckon. Muggles already have a Queen, why should they get everything?” His hand gripped his hip, a movement amusingly similar to Molly Weasley. Her anger dissipating as she imagined Fred in Molly’s clothing.

“It’s 'penny for your thoughts',” she corrected, as she backed away from him. Leaving him to continue whatever had him wandering the castles during class. Nothing good, she reckoned. His tall form speeding his gait, allowing him to catch her with ease. Their legs moved in tandem to one another. Every effort she made to speed up, stilted her breath. All her attempts were easily matched by the tall wizard, shadowing her without a blink of effort.

“’Penny for your thoughts’ is a terrible wizarding phrase. Won’t do at all,” He tapped his chin in thought. “Galleon from _your_ stallion?" He brandished a coin from his robes, flipping it earnestly. She ignored him. The best approach she could muster, even knowing there was a possibility of engaging him further by her silence. A sliver of movement caught her from the edge of the corridor. She paused, her arm reaching across Fred to stop him. He jerked back, catching himself on his back-foot. His mouth opening to question the sudden contact, hushed quickly by the thin finger pressed to his lips.

She kept her finger pressed to the warm lips of Fred, as her head turned away, listening for sounds. A low-pitched screeching noise, like a singing chatter, caught her ears. Fred had caught on to the noise too, his red eyebrow arching slightly. She indicated her head towards the noise, stepping quietly forward. Her behaviours as of late were peculiar. Wildly uncharacteristic of her. Harry was the boy who veered into danger, Hermione merely followed as Ron fumbled behind him.

The redhead behind her now did not fumble or pester. He mimicked her behaviour, quiet as a mouse and just as sneaky. Speaking of mice. The pitter-patter of Ron’s fattened rat, as it scurried across her feet sounded in her ears. The sensation of his long-greyed tail hitting her ankles, forcing a yelp from her.

“We better inform Dumbledore. Possibly the ministry,” said Fred, his features withheld in mock seriousness.

“If I’d known it was that _damned rat_ \- I would’ve kept walking. If the dementors flaunting each entrance were not enough for you, I should like to tell you - we have to be careful. For Godric’s sake, there’s-” she whispered lowly, the open secret casting the airs around them as she cut her speech short. _There’s a mass murder on the loose._ If Arthur was to be believed or the crippling creatures dawning the castle, he was trying to get inside Hogwarts. He was trying to get Harry - trying to kill Harry. The theory that he was out to resurrect Voldemort, by killing Harry did not sit well with her. Besides there is no evidence that he could be resurrected, it was far too simple in her mind. Why would a mass murder try to kill Harry? He, who was embedded in the heart of a heavily protected castle, surrounded by the very beings they had escaped?

“Is everything a joke to you?” she sneered.

“No, I take pranks very serious. It’s an art form,” he said, straightening his tie and puffing his chest. She was dooming herself by engaging him.

“You’re ridiculous.” An understatement. Verifiably insane was more appropriate but less decent.

“Says the girl chasing mice,” he leaned into her, grinning with abandon.

“It’s a rat, and I wasn’t chasing him!” she snapped, pushing him away with a harsh shove.

“You heard Dumbledore. His whole thing about light in the darkness - using like - emotional _lumos_ or something. That’s what we do. That’s what I _do._ Unless you think Dumbledore is ridiculous, well then, you’re absolutely barmy,” The cadence of his voice was harsh. She scoffed, a mocking sound. That was justification for his abhorrent behaviour and nothing more. They're societal menaces with a speciality in chaos and havoc. Interfering with the education of others should be a committable offence, in her humble opinion.

“You can justify your actions, all you want, Frederick. Though, I would be remiss in telling you that you’ve got to be careful. Your little pranks will be of no help facing the business end of a crazed man’s wand.”

Hermione truly took no enjoyment in lecturing others. She’d love to be the type of person to shrug her shoulders and walk away unaffected. She would love to, but her conscience would not allow her. When someone says something foolish, she could play the scenarios in her mind where their ignorance could hurt them. Unfortunately, this left her questioning everyone choices and condemning herself for it.

“Worried about me? I’ll live to see our wedding day. Don’t you worry there, love,” he winked, clucking his tongue loudly. She’d begun to suspect that not only was his newfound lust a method to embarrass her, but a way to defend himself. She was tired of him and rolling her eyes this often.

“If I saw you on my wedding day - _well_ , I’d willing blind myself - if the sight itself didn’t manage it,” she walked away. Adjusting her sleeves as she walked, blissfully ignoring his retorts. The rat that had coloured her cheeks, scampered across the hall before her. Taunting her, so. Her foot twitched to kick the rodent across the hall, despite her abhorrence to cruelty. She’d never do it. She stood against violence, but then there was something about that rat that caused her lips to twist. It could be attributed to its slimy nature, although lately her dislike was amplified. Easily attributed to the slander said rat had caused her beloved familiar, she supposed.

She refrained from allowing the animal to taste the cruel lick of her thick soles, settling for a cat-like hiss. The beast screeched and fled, as she ducked into a nearby alcove. One turn and she’d find herself in class, pushing the day’s events into the recesses of her mind as magical knowledge soaked into her mind. The vanishing feeling took hold as she evaporated from existence, dissolving into the past as the wheels of time ticked.

A foolish thought to tamper with time came, preventing the last few days from occurring. The wish died a savage death on her tongue, seeing the past unfold in front of her for the thousandth time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this week! Though, this is the beginning of my rambles.
> 
> In my hazy, fever induced nightmare, I had an epiphany about this story. I couldn't look at my laptop to begin all the changes I had. I'm sad to say the majority of the work, I'd written has been scraped bar some interactions I'd liked.
> 
> I'd said that I would be fairly canon compliant and only change areas where a Fred/Hermione relationship would interfere with the plot. I will still keep elements of the story, major plots and the like but I guarantee major changes too. It's simply to keep myself entertained really, I write because I enjoy it. I also enjoy Harry potter. Though, if I wanted to read it, I'd pick up my hardback. It's not very fun to write about things that's already been done. Felt like an assignment and that was boring as hell. Sick of reading the same thing, and writing it wasn't much fun either. 
> 
> So, if that's not your thing. I'm sorry to disappoint, but luckily were in the beginning so there's no major investment and you can leave, with little time wasted!
> 
> Really hope you liked it, this was one of the exceptional few chapters to be saved. I've gone from being 45,000 words ahead, to a measly 15,000 words. Though, this won't affect my updates luckily.
> 
> I really like your reviews! Even if it's only small, it's great motivation - Please, review even if it's something you hate! All criticism is constructive. Really pushes you to write and want to satisfy people.
> 
> Though I'm curious, what changes would you bring to the harry potter franchise?  
> Other than save Fred lol. I'll never heal.
> 
> Until next time.


	4. Fresh Wounds and Aged Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred begins planning. Hermione has an interesting Defence Against the Dark Arts Class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Hope you enjoy! Again, I'm unbeta'd and Microsoft Word is my best friend. Feel free to point out mistakes!

Fred could not help but feel guilty for her reception. He did try to dissuade his house acting against the young witch. They had. Kind of. There were no harsh words, cowardly rumours or pranks played. That was in his control. What was not in his control was their feelings. He could try convincing them to be kind. In the end, he couldn’t force them to like her.

She was facing sideway glares from Alicia and Angelina. Oliver Wood acting as though she doesn’t exist. He’d ignored her, as she asked for the pumpkin juice to his left. Reasonable. She did ruin his practice, attack his best beater (fact), and destroy a large portion of the quidditch pitch. Still, the damage was fixed within an afternoon, and Fred lived to see another glorious day. She didn’t seem too bothered by everyone else. She’d walked to the end of the table, her chin pointed and proud, picking up the pumpkin juice and walking back to her seat seamlessly. She continued her reading, ignoring his knat of a brother trying to engage her in conversation. Oh, it would seem Ron’s in the doghouse.

The few people that knew, had assumed Frederick was joking when he’d said he was pursuing the young witch. Lee had laughed, a hard slap to his shoulder. When Fred didn’t laugh, well, Lee was waiting for a smile. Some acknowledgement that this was a joke. George had barely believed him, at first. That was alright. The world could remain blind.

The fewer boys opening their eyes to the little fireball down the ways was bloody brilliant. It would happen soon enough, probably entering her fourth year. They’d be turning their heads, more reasonable to look now she was a year bolder. He couldn’t have that either. He needed everyone to believe how serious he was. Because he was. Incredibly serious.

So, the wheels began turning. His train of thought churning out ideas with gusto, with every way to declare his intentions. She would be his. He’d lived his whole life sharing with his abundant family. He’d learned once you found something of your own, you smashed your stake into the earth and claimed your prize.

His own house was easy enough. A message easily spread and accepted from the beloved prankster. Whether they understood why was beyond the point, they just needed to accept it. It was the other houses that could be problematic. Ravenclaws were renowned for their stubbornness, they could give a toss about his invisible flag. There was the damned Hufflepuff house, too. If one Hufflepuff had their eye on the witch, it was guaranteed that they would be working against Fred. The only house that would never look at the muggleborn was Slytherin, for _reasons_. Is it terrible that he was grateful for that?

He could proclaim deliver his speech on Dumbledore’s dais. Immediate detention, but the reward was worth it. The largest risk in that action would be everyone thinking it was a prank, reinforcing the idea for the girl, too. All his plans had that possible outcome, sadly. It was far too bold, for the first-time public announcing it. Another time, when she’d had some time to acclimate to idea. He’d store that in the idea folder for the moment.

It really needed to be public.

He’d already asked her to Hogsmeade. She either didn’t believe him or she wasn’t interested. Both had the same solution - a relentless pursuit. Wearing her down over time, weakening her will and succumbing to his charms. It would be a long road, but he could see the end game, even if she couldn’t. It would be glorious. Until he could get her on his side, he’d need to scare some boys away. Declaring his ownership, for one and all to know. In a subtle, very loud way. It was a fine balance to strike. Did he mention public?

So, in summation, it needed to be public. Considerably less public than the Great Hall. He leaned back to ponder, his goblet poised at his lips. He let his eyes wander over the source of his troubles.

Her small plate was barely touched, lightly grazing as she devoured the text before her. He doesn’t admit to being an expert on the girl. Though, as the brother of her best friend, he knows a little more than the average layman. He knows that even though her brows are furrowed, she’s not confused by her reading at all. Eyes darting between the text lines rapidly. Her sole focus gained by the author. Every fibre of her embedded in the pages. As the din of dinner clatters behind her, and students clamour over one another in conversation. The muddle of noise escapes her. Her pert nose scrunching at every page turn, irritated by the break in her focus. His eyes roll across the plains of her face, to the tumbling waves tickling her shoulders and draping her back. A hurtful kick pounds his shin, pulling him from his subtle gazing.

“Be any more obvious, mate,” George nods his head in the direction of Hermione. Alright, maybe it wasn’t so subtle.

“Yeah, I probably could,” Fred laughs. He should be grateful to his mirror. He’d gotten completely off track, somewhere around her chestnut curls. Remembering the golden tones gleaming, as the sun bounced off her shiny curls. Yes, it was definitely the curls.

“I don’t get it,” Lee said, the assistant to their mischief.

“Better that way,” George said, plucking a roast potato from Lee’s plate, tossing it in his mouth. Fred grinned as the words were stolen from him.

“I’m in need of ideas of the Granger persuasion,” explaining what exactly he needed, and why. Truer friends, one could not find. Offering every solution and countering with the risks of such actions. Most people (Hermione), seemed to believe they didn’t consider these things. An unfounded claim. They were methodical in their planning, every action and the deemed reaction considered. Investigating the cost versus bounty. The satisfaction versus the punishment.

“I’ve got it!” Lee said, his large mouth clamping down on a chicken leg in victory. An elegant idea, inelegantly spoken.

* * *

The world had righted itself by the following Monday, for Hermione. Sure, Oliver Wood still acted as though she was a Slytherin in disguise, out to destroy his precious team. Everyone else had thankfully forgotten the last few days. The common room was no longer evacuating when she’d sit by the roaring fire. She couldn’t be any more grateful. It was very taxing to seem completely unaffected. She was beginning to suffer vertigo, holding her head to such heights.

Ron had given an apology – to the best of his abilities, anyway. It was somewhat coached as his eyes would drift to Harry. Her friend mouthing words to recite, triggering the memory of the speech they’d rehearsed together. She’d appreciated the thought behind it. Ron’s foot has always listed its primary address as Ron’s mouth. She’d accepted it long ago. Recognising the effort, he’d made was a concession on her part. He never intended to be hurtful. Despite Harry explaining it, he most likely doesn’t understand what he’d done. However dim Ron could be, he was a good friend and person. All was right and she was delighted.

Harry fell into the seat beside her, gathering sheets of crumbling parchment from his bag in a rush. Honestly. He’d be in less of a rush if he didn’t spend his lunch wandering hallways, ending up on the other side of Hogwarts with four minutes to spare.

“Just about made it – hmm, any chance you've got a spare ink?” he asked, with a sheepish expression. He knew right well she always kept a spare. He also knew she was not happy to no longer have said spare. She sighed, pulling the blackened ink pot from her rucksack, sliding it towards him wordlessly.

“Thanks, Hermione. I’ll get you two more, I swear,” he kept her eye contact, his hand laid over his heart. Preciously why she couldn’t be angry at Harry. He was very empathetic, sensing her change in mood and trying to fix it. She theorised his sixth sense was a result of his neglectful childhood. Another reason she couldn’t be angry with him. She patted his hand softly, a small smile touching her lips.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. I’d rather you were more prepared, is all. It’s only ink,” his brilliant white teeth shined. He nodded fiercely, a promise to be more prepared for his lessons. A promise he’d break in a month’s time. Her eyes searched the room, looking for a red beacon. Ron was tittering closely to Seamus Finnegan as their eyes darted back and forth between Parvati and Lavender. Boys.

Remus Lupin entered the classroom, the ends of his tattered robes dragging along the floor. Fading with age, and dampening the black colour. The colour, though faded, exaggerated the pallor of his skin. For a relatively young wizard, time has not been friendly. Though, having your friends killed by dark wizards could do that, too. He was still incredibly attractive, though. She tried not to ogle him - she’d learned a lesson from her previous defence teacher. Though, he’d shattered the mould of incompetency that entrenched the cursed position, early in the year.

He’d eyed her with a pinched expression, during class as they revised the disarming spell. She’d had to hide her face to conceal the red creeping up her collar, focusing on her wand movements. She’d never figured out why she’d earned such attentions, her pinkie toes were probably blooming red, too.

“Good afternoon, apologies for my absence. I’d had assigned Hinkypunks for the last class. Seems Professor _Snape_ , thought better…” his shoulders tensed, before he’d shaken his stupor away. Strange. “…Never mind, we’ll continue. So, this creature. Rather nefarious. I can see you snigger, Weasley. Encounter this creature in the dead of night, without knowing how to defend yourself - you’ll never be seen again,” Ron gulped. Wooden in his chair, as the wispy creatures’ arms billowed, attempting to break the metal cage to claw the man revealing secrets.

Professor Lupin laughed quietly as Ron flinched in his seat. The scarring on his cheeks complimenting his rugged beauty, as he smiled. He covered the cage with a white sheet, the sleeve of his robes falling to his elbow as he moved his arm. His forearm was covered in fresh scars. Three jagged lines cutting a diagonal path through his sinewy arms. She inhaled quickly at the sight, her heartbeat thudding. It was so low, not even Harry heard it. Professor Lupin did, though. His head swivelled to face her, with scouring eyes. She looked at him. Wide-eyed and unused to the attention of his penetrating gaze. A peculiar colour, she thought.

Her eyes sought the scarring by accident, alerting the twitchy man. He quickly pulled down his sleeve. He glared once more with a growl vibrating his throat before she caved and faced her lap. Stepping away from his unwavering eyes.

“Right… so, they can lure you but they’re prone to attack with fireballs if y…”

Hermione’s mind wandered from the man as she considered his strange behaviour. She kept her head bowed, thoroughly cowed by his blazing eyes. He seemed offended by her. Though, why he was protective of his scars was unknown to her. Is that why he was sick? Had he been attacked? No, he’d also been sick before those wounds. They looked rather fresh too.

He always seemed to grow weaker on odd weeks, for the last three months. Sicker by the day, until he wasn’t. Scars were not uncommon to him. Evident by the long white scar cutting his eyebrow in half, disappearing behind his hairline. Concealed by a sandy-blonde fringe, streaked with slashes of dull grey. Until he’d self-consciously drag his long fingers through his hair, revealing the white lines beneath. What attacked him? It was possible for the wound to be an old one, cursed to never heal. Then, why was he sick? Are they unrelated?

No, he was also a bit strange. A kind, chocolate-eyed man most days. Though, he’d always become rather tense around Snape, a silent sneer as they crossed paths. He seemed rather annoyed that he’d covered a different topic, too. She snorted, it had bugged her, too. Veering off course was not something she enjoyed. Come to think of it, Snape didn’t seem to enjoy that either. He’d always strictly adhered to the chapter order of the assigned manual, since she’d started at Hogwarts. Following chapter by chapter in ritual. What made DADA different? A fondness for the misunderstood creatures, perhaps?

Not a chance, she snorted. He’d ended his class providing his recommended reading: ‘ _Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don’t Deserve to Live’._ Spoke his opinion rather bluntly _._ In fact, he’d seemed personally offended they were allowed to live amongst us at all. His twisted lips sneering his vitriolic poison. _‘Those five ways may save your life, one of these days. I suppose, you could be bitten and survive. Though, who’d want that?’_

Her friends had not even bothered to research the five ways yet. His essay was not due for another week. Hermione had the essay finished by nightfall - all fifty inches with more references than necessary. It was surprisingly easy to spot a werewolf if one knew what they were looking for.

  1. Heightened senses – A Lupine has evolved senses in human form. All senses are advanced. A werewolf can hear the heartbeats of others, smell pheromonal changes in one’s sweat and possess an overall enhanced vision.



  1. Stretched and Aging skin – The transformation from human to wolf is traumatic. The metamorphosis can be violent. As limbs elongate, the skin pulls taut and can even rip. Throughout life, the repeated transformations can affect the elasticity of one’s skin, giving way to an older appearance.



  1. Greying hair – When a wolf is first bitten, the greying begins. Interestingly, the first grey hair can be found on the day of the forsaken bite. The genetic alterations caused by the wizarding virus has not been thoroughly studied. It does not seem to affect fullness or quality of the hair, transforming the colour only.



  1. A pale complexion - Most werewolves require daily blood replenishing potions to alleviate the body’s need for new blood. In human form, this can give werewolves a whitewashed appearance. Growing paler as the day draws near.



  1. Lupine eyes – A distinct yellow ring encompassing the pupil, flaring closer to the day of transformation. After the full moon, affects wane but a hint of gold remains for several days…



Lupine eyes. Grey hair. Ageing skin. Pale skin. Heightened senses…

Her heart thumped loudly as blood filled her ears. She closed her eyes, letting the waves of nausea wash over her.

“A question for the _brightest witch_ of her age then, Miss Granger?” asked the burly man. Her head jerked at the mention, the quick motion causing the larger volume of blood in her head to swirl. A feral grin baring his canines pulled his face tight. She could envision the blood dripping from the sharp teeth after a fresh kill. She was in class, she reminded. She was _safe_ in class, she hoped. The Voldemort hybrid didn’t dare attack Harry in class. Lupin was smarter than both men, was the wolf buried within?

“I don’t know…sir,” She asked, her throat tight around the words. Focusing her eyes on the window beyond his shoulder - she couldn’t look in his eyes. There lurked a confirmation to what she knew, and one she was unprepared for.

“Jaysus lads, call for Pomfrey,” Seamus joked. The class erupting in giggles, as he mockingly made to check her temperature in panic. Blissfully unaware of the tension stoking the air between them. Hermione remained still as Seamus performed his skit, glued in place. His smile dropped with his eyes, narrowing as they grazed her thumping chest.

 _Breathe Hermione._ He can smell it. His golden eyes trapped her as they meet hers once more. The lupin gold weakening as the hour grew, his lips and furry brows pinching tightly. Dragging his handsome features unkindly.

“Don’t know the question? Is it because you were clearly daydreaming, or you do not know the answer?” His voice was a whisper, spoken through terse lips. The cadence of his voice vibrating as he spoke quickly, never lapsing to breathe. Her heart pulsed against her ribs, ignoring her inner monologue to steady herself. “This is not a revision class, Miss Granger. It is not I, that needs to learn this. Pay attention.”

Harry had an innate ability to sense unease. Innate may be the wrong word. It was something he’d grown to learn, needing to anticipate the foggy dangers ahead. Then again, he’d been in danger since he was born. Perhaps it was innate. Yes, Harry had a natural ability to sense unease. He stiffened in his chair as Lupin’s spit flew, hitting the table as he snapped at Hermione. Lupin sensed the discomfort as it spread like a disease, hitting each student in domino. The hushed laughter at the seemingly perfect girl as she’s scolded quieted gradually, a silent confusion taking hold.

“Class dismissed,” he said, steadily. Turning from the students, walking slowly towards the opposing windows with weighted shoulders. The weight of secrets his burden to bear, and his alone. His hands gripped the ledge of the arching windows, sharp fingernails marring the slick mahogany.

Harry nudged Hermione to collect her things. The classroom was emptying quickly, an eagerness to enjoy the early dismissal with friends. Hermione’s mouth opened and closed, searching for an excuse for her glued position.

_Werewolf._

Harry began to put her things away, shoving her quills and parchment within her bag with abandon. The scrunching of the parchment made her cringe, breaking her trance. Her chair screeched as it dragged across the cold stone, standing from her seated position with hesitance. It all felt unfinished.

“I’d like to speak to you for a moment, Ms Granger. Alone - if you would, Harry,” he whispered, void of feeling. His position remained fixed. His head unmoving as the light glared through the window. The brightening light obscured his features, only the shadow of a man to be seen. The shadow cast over Hermione was impressively large compared to the man before her, an imitation of the entities warring within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's another chapter down!
> 
> See, there's those changes I was talking about - they're incoming! I hope you's like it! As it says on the tin, this is a slow burn. Not unbearable slow, there'll be sustenance along the way! 
> 
> Also, JK. Rowling has never explained the 5 signs of a werewolf and I'm mad. Mine are made up but the book mentioned is a real reference. She has said in interviews that it's essentially wizard aids, so that's why I've made it a virus.
> 
> I'm in the story line of Prisoner of Azkaban and from the one shot this is based on, so they get together in Order of the Phoenix timeline. There's that slow burn I'd tagged. 
> 
> Leave a review or a kudos, if you're so inclined. Even to berate me - truly love that. Seeing people responding really motivates me!  
> I really hope you liked it!
> 
> Until next time.


	5. They Were Good People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione settles in for a frank discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Again. I only posted a few hours ago, but it felt entirely unfinished. So, I rushed out this edit - a deep fear of editing mistakes is upon me. Alas, I still hope you like it!
> 
> As always, any POV changes will be indicated by a '-', above the text.
> 
> Whereas, scene changes will be indicated by '*', above the text,
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’d like to speak to you for a moment, Miss Granger. Alone - if you would, Harry,” he whispered, void of feeling. His position remained fixed. His head unmoving as the light glared through the window. The brightening light obscured his features, only the shadow of a man to be seen. The shadow cast over Hermione was impressively large compared to the man before her, an imitation of the entities warring within.

Harry was the one hesitating now. His small hand landing on her shoulder, as his seeking emerald eyes beseeched her. Harry had no idea what happened, but he _knew_ that something was amiss. He may have formed a small friendship with the new teacher on a bygone connection, but he was loyal to a fault. He’d set himself alight before he’d let harm come to his friend. She’d do the same, too. She’d do it now, too.

She disarmed with a smile, nodding in acquiescence and forcing him to leave. He wouldn’t go far, he’d be stuck to the wall outside until she emerged. If she returned hurt, emotionally or otherwise, he’d barge in with wand and fighting words. His hand slipped slowly down her arm, with uncertainty in his gaze as his hand lingered. He nodded weakly in acceptance, with a lasting glance to the professor before leaving.

Hermione was a champion of the second class. She’d knitted hats and scarves for the elves, and staunchly defended centaurs as Draco decreed them, half-breeds.

Logically, she should be as supportive of werewolves. When she’d researched her essay, she’d found a book that had not been recommended by her potion’s professor. A slim tome, titled ‘ _Hairy snout. Human heart’_. It was written by an unidentified author, describing his battle for acceptance, throughout the 1970s. By the end, her heart had been cleaved in half and honey-eyes wettened.

Yes, she championed the misunderstood. Though, it was one thing to abide by self-implemented morals resolutely. Another thing to remain so, when faced with the fright of most young children. The lone book was the only literature to offer a contrasting opinion, or real-life account of a day as a werewolf. The other books described vicious canines, blood-curdling howls and seeping cuts. It was hard to remove that image from her mind, while remaining entirely unaffected.

Neither moved since Harry left. A minute or two passing, yet, neither determined to break the timid silence. He knows she figured _something_ out. His congealed wounds, lacking appearance, and reaction to Snape’s unauthorised lesson had laced the story together. Snape must have been trying to warn them. She’d analyse her memories of his class at some point, now she’d other things to think about. The current question working her mind was worrying her. Should she feign ignorance? Would her body betray her, if she tried? A deceiving bead of sweat? A beat too quick?

“What do your parents do Miss Granger?” he asked, never inching from the window. She flinched at his abrupt speaking, her hazel eyes drawing in confusion. Something she’d rather not discuss, either.

“My parents were dentists. Muggle teeth healers, sir,” a carefully thought response. Her newly shined faux leather shoes scuffing the floor, absentmindedly.

“Were?” he asked. Not careful enough it seemed. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly. She increased her height, standing ramrod straight, glaring at the head of the intrusive man. Werewolf or not, her canines were not soft either.

“They died when I was young in a car accident. My Grandmother raised me – sir,” his proper address, tacked quickly at the end. Where a saddened sound should have been, was a robotic response to an oft-asked question. He turned slowly, his movement blocking the harsh glare of the sun. He smiled a smile of home and comfort, laced with hope and chivalry. It was one she’d blush for, any other day. Currently, her jaw locked as she veered her eyes away from the signs of pity. She’d rather be bitten by those teeth, than be pitied by him.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Granger,” he said, soft as woven silk.

“I’m sure,” and she was sure. Adults often were sorry to hear it. Their children, however, were cruel and unfiltered. As if she’d needed another thing to separate her from her schoolmates.

When her fifty-one-year-old grandmother collected her at school, she’d gotten her fair share of knowing glances. Assumptions of abandonment were widely spread. Her even-tempered grandmother would ignore the hushed whispers. Choosing to rise above, explaining the circumstances of her enduring stay to no one, other than the child affected. Her parents were in an accident when they were returning from work, and they were gone. That was everything. No woeful tale or sorrowed goodbyes. It was all explained in that one sentence, her grandmother told her all those years ago.

Even then, she’d never share much about her parents. Hermione was always eager to hear about her parents. Asking every question she could, and getting her answers, too. Did her mother like apples, like she did? Was her father fond of a gripping story, or a thrilling football match? Both, perhaps?

It was not until she was six years old, that she truly understood what death meant. In her mind, ‘they were gone’, as her grandmother had put it, meant they were gone _for now_. It wasn’t until she’d read a book, of all things, about a fatherless boy. An image of a clothed angel seared in her mind forever. Lifted from the pages of the book, and into her brain forever. It had been her longest lesson in life to fully engage with. Gone meant gone _._ It never meant gone _for now_.

It always meant gone _for good_.

Then everything had fallen together. The pieces broken but in position, all the same. Why her bubble of energy, Grandmother Ruth, would wither before as Hermione asked her silly questions. The shaky voice and curt answers clicked. Never denying her daughter’s only child what she wanted to know, even if it cut at her heart a fraction more. Hermione had stopped asking questions. Hermione stopped returning the pitying smiles, too.

Hence, her short and possibly disrespectful reply. Lupin seemed to understand her newfound strength, backing away from her as her attitude demanded closure.

“My father worked at the ministry, in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. A low-level employee but he was very proud of his work. ‘ _We’re all weaving the tapestry, even if we do not sell the thing!_ ’” Hermione could see his cheeks lifting with life, as he imitated his father’s wagging his pointer finger. Lightly chuckling while relieving his fond memories. “My mother was a muggle seamstress. I think that’s why I still wear clothes until they’re near unwearable, really. The point is, they were good people, Miss Granger.” He shifted his weight from left to right, deciding what action to take and unsure whether to do so.

“Good people. The best – to me, anyway. They were _good people_ and they never deserved the grief I gave them,” her breath hitched, as she followed the thread of conversation. He caught her rhythmic change, eyes pained with her clear unease. “They were good – _normal_ – people with an _abnormal_ son. You know that though, do you not?” he asked, his fingers knotting together in front of him.

“I don’t know anything, sir,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. A bold lie. A bold lie that he did not believe. He snorted in derision.

“Best not lie, Miss Granger. Your heart betrays you,” he said, as she grimaced at the thought. “I was bitten when I was four, probably the youngest bitten child in Britain, at the time. I’d gotten a broom, you see. Father got it as a gift from his work for me – he hated flying, himself. He’d come home, given it to me and promised to show me how to fly in the morning. I didn’t listen – ever the _courageous_ Gryffindor,” he pauses to chuckle, but its poison in her ears. “I went outside, in the evening and I was bitten.”

Hermione hated pitying glances. Doubted he liked them much, either. She’d fought the welling tears gathering in the corners. A hopeless fight, he’d know with his enhanced senses. Maybe even smell the pity. She imagined pity smelled like freshly poured salt. Still, she couldn’t help the overwhelming sadness inside. He was so young. He was _too_ young. He’d never lived a life he could remember, untainted. His first memory was likely, the searing bite, entombing his cursed fate.

“They did all they could for me. They kept the secret knowing there was nothing that could be done for me. Except give me some privacy. Also, against the law, but they risked Azkaban in doing so. All so, I could have some semblance of a childhood. It was a great one, too. Besides the time tied in the basement, but that was necessary. I’d attack someone, if not. I haven’t _ever_ done that, believe me,” he said, eyes imploring her to believe him. Her mind was overloaded with the surge of information.

“Dumbledore let me come to Hogwarts – my father begged him. Of course, there were _conditions_ to keep other students safe. Now, there’s the wolfsbane potion, absolutely brill–”

“Sir, why are you telling me all of this?” She interrupted, stepping back as he began a caged pacing. Her arms wanted to reach out, though her mind knew better. He’s her professor, and it was not appropriate to do so. He laughed a mirthless laugh, a sonic boom ringing in her ears.

“I’m not – _I’ve no idea, really_! Nobody ever figured it out! Actually, a friend or two had. This isn’t the same, is it? No, it wouldn’t be...I feel I need to explain myself…” he ceased his pacing, shoving his hands in his baggy trousers. “…You’re just so afraidof me, Hermione.”

“I don’t want to be. Afraid, that is. I don’t really think I am either. More shocked, I think - or afraid of the truth…have you ever read, _‘Hairy snout. Human Heart?’_ ” she asked, offering a glimmer of hope to the fraying man. Her smile widened as he vanquished the glamour of an unclaimed book on his desk. The wonder she felt for the sheer power of his wandless magic, combined with the unnoticeable glamour was unquantifiable.

“Of course, _you’ve_ read it! Well - logically, I understand it’s not your fault, at all. It’s the monster who bit you – if anyone’s at fault. It just took a moment for my heart to catch up with my brain, is all. What’s the wolfsbane potion do, sir? I’ve never heard of it.”

She took the armchairs for guests with ease, as he moved the covered hinkypunk from atop the table. The creature within shrieked, a hiccupping noise in agitation. Her professor followed her lead, taking the high-winged chair on his side. He sat in the chair, the tension winding his shoulders high on his neck. His fingers picked at the loosening threads of the maroon upholstered chair. She’d expected to appease him somewhat when she’d admitting to not fearing him. Rather unsuccessfully.

She was dwindling in her shame. She knew him, she’d seen his kindness with Harry. His almost brotherly affection was well received by her. Harry had flourished under his attention. Shining mirth present in his eyes as recounted a story of his parents to her, given freely by the man before her. A child-like wonder was not associated with Harry, outside the bounds of a quidditch field. It was refreshing. She was skeptical of the man at first, fearing anyone who planted themselves in her friend’s road. Skepticism was healthy, she told herself.

“It’s a potion. When I transform, I’m no longer myself, you see. I’m moony then. That’s the name Padf- _Sirius_ gave him. I can’t control what I do – he’s got full control on those nights. When I first came to Hogwarts, Dumbledore created this silver cage, below the whomping willow for me. Moony would learn, after a few burns most nights, that there was no escape. It’s an awful way to wake up. With those _burns_ , and the aches of transforming back with shattered bones. The worst, really,” he shivered, as his palm soothed the long scratches along his arm. She gestures with her hand to continue, her eagerness to learn of the potion eliciting a small smile from him.

“The potion, though. It helps me keep my mind as I transform. It’s not a cure, but it’s a miracle for me. I can stop Moony from hurting _me_. I can’t get it outside of Hogwarts, though. It takes a master potioneer, of which I am not. The bottled stuff is too expensive for me at the Apothecary, too. Snape makes it now for me. I stay in the cage for precaution as well, mind. You’re _all_ safe.”

His scarred hand seeking hers as it lay across the table. He pulled away quickly, thinking better of his actions to the young student, or just fearing rejection. Hermione barely considered it, as she reached out to squeeze his hand lightly. A gentling touch, mindful of his achy bones. His lips upturned, recognising the action for the kindness it was. She knew she shouldn’t, but her teeth were grinding as she tried silencing herself.

“Forgive me, but if you can control yourself, how did you manage the cuts on your arm?” She couldn’t believe he’d consciously done it to himself. Well, unless he wanted to. That was not an appropriate topic to discuss with her Professor. Although lines had been crossed today, some boundaries still remained. Her professor began to redden, his calloused hand fidgeting beneath her soft touch.

“I’m forgetful by nature - from my mother, I reckon. The wolfsbane must be taken at the midpoint of each day. It’s why I stay in the cage during the full moon. In case I’ve forgotten to take the potion or was late to take it. It appears, I’d forgotten this month,” he reassured her, assuming her quickly withdrawn hand was one of disapproval.

“Are you a wizard or not?” She said, a haughty smile playing a tune of her lips. Her professor’s mouth opened and closed, the question confounding him. “Hmm?”

_“…Yes?”_

“Then you should be more than aware of the _Monitum Excandescunt,_ enchantment. Taught to all second-year charm students. Mostly older women use it to remind them for – _ahem_ – certain potions -” her ears, tinging pink, unable to say contraception potion to the older man. “You simply wave your wand at your neck, saying the enchantment, like so,” she demonstrated the triangle-esque wand movement for him.

“The spell will burn hotter until unbearable, approximately ten minutes before you must take the potion. Allowing you some time to retrieve it, too, if you’ve forgotten it, as you are _wont to do_. It will stop once you’ve taken said potion…simple…really,” she finished, lamely. Blinking furiously as she remembered it was not Ron, she was currently _lecturing_ on spell use.

He eyed her as if she’d suddenly transformed into a dancing hippogriff, before a burst of bright and airy laughter filled his chest. The youthful spark returning to him for the first time she’d known him. Age fading as he cleared his watering eyes, enjoying the role reversal they’d played. Her cheeks burned, though amusement sparkled in her eyes. She was relieved she’d received no point loss for her, well, _everything._

“Never too old to learn,” he muffled as he reigned in his laughter, unable to look at the honey-eyed creature before him without deep-belly laughing. She’d be embarrassed if his shoulders hadn’t lost their thickened set. The laughing snapped the cord within, and she was grateful for her obstinate tongue, for once. “I’d wish I’d known before. It would have made it easier. Avoiding this whole mess, all together. It’s a shame, really,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair while crossing his ankles. She did not understand, and that _never_ sat well with her.

“Why is that a shame?” She asked, a note of exasperation colouring her tone. Riddles beneath words were an irritation. She spoke plainly, why could others not manage to do so? Tiresome.

“I just don’t need it now, Hermione. I no longer have need of the potion,” he said, slowly the eleven lines between his eyes deepening as her frown elongated. He had no idea why she was confused.

“Why not?” she asked, a rising worry blossoming within her chest cavity. Exasperation abandoning her as quick as it came.

“I won’t be at Hogwarts anymore,” he said, succinctly. As the last word burst from his mouth, she sprung from her chair, the legs of the armchair wobbling as it righted itself. The worry compounding into a tight ball, bouncing like a canon around her ribcage painfully.

“Why are you leaving? Why would you not be at Hogwarts? Will you still teach us?” The questions fumbling from her, collapsing on one another as they fell from her lips.

“Hermione, _you know why_. I can’t stay here, anymore,” he admitted quietly. Hermione allowed many things around her to happen, without interference. Fine. Some things to happen around her without interference. The best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher to grace these halls, leaving because of her was not one of them.

“I’m not going to tell anyone!” she exclaimed, her breaths heaving quickly at the rising panic. Why did she look at his arm? Damned eyes.

Damned Snape, too. Rotted snake.

“Hermione, I can’t expect you to keep this from your friends. From Harry,” he shook his head, a hint of disapproval in his voice. She understood. She’d be disappointed, too. After all, he was losing everything because of her. His job, his wolfsbane potion and the last tribute of his best friend, James. All because she couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“Yes, I will – even if you leave, I would! It's not mine, to tell! Harry _needs_ you, you’ll hurt him if you leave! I swear it, sir,” her mouth outpaced her mind. Barely forming coherent arguments before they left.

“ _Hermione_ -”

“You can’t leave, you’re the best Defence teacher we’ve had. They’ll stick us with another blithering idiot like _Lockhart_ or worse – _Quirrell,”_ she seethed. He was Voldemort, who would come next?

“ _Hermione_ -” he stood, rounding the table trying to soothe the witch as her volume increased, proportionally with her upset.

“You can’t leave, you just can’t. I won’t let you, it’s all my fault, yo- “

“ _Hermione!”_ he roared, the yellowing gold of his eyes gleaming as Moony introduced himself. She shut her mouth abruptly, though not without one last try.

“Please. _Please,_ _sir_ ,” she begged. Her eyes watering, ever so. He’d lose everything because of her. What was in the world for a werewolf? Besides misunderstanding, bigotry and slander. What had she done?

“Alright, Hemione. I’ll stay, for now” his hand patted her shoulder, as her rough breaths struggled free from her lips.

Staying for now. Not staying for good _._ She supposes it would do - for now. She’d find her for good, soon.

“You should head to lunch. By my wolfie ears, Harry is trying hard to not break my door through– ” he smiled, as she began to fluster, worrying if he’d heard. “–Don’t worry, yourself. I silenced the door once he’d left. The secret _remains,_ ” he waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a watery laugh from the worn witch. “Here, take some chocolate. Honeyduke’s best, I assure you. Take it with you to lunch,” he said, handing her a small bar, as he ushered her towards the door. His guiding hand, reinforcing her as her misty eyes began to clear. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Hermione.”

Tomorrow. He’d still be here. She smiled over her shoulder to her professor, as her hand gripped the intricately engraved door handle. She took a breath, calming herself once more before Harry began his smothering. 

* * *

His eyes lingered on the door, catching the last sight of her swinging rucksack as she left. It was eerily uncanny. He could feel the rising goosebumps, climbing his arms as he recalled events, from mere moments ago. A strange witch. As courageous as she was strange. Few would stay in a room, alone, with a known werewolf. Not that he'd blame them. The little witch did, with a determined eye.

With a fond smile, he began to rehearse the triangle-esque wand movement from earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update down!
> 
> So, there's a lot of changes. Two major ones, I just killed her parents off screen. I did it because I wanted to, really. Her parents were boring as heck, alive anyway lol. No, I really just wanted to give her some more character development. She's very squeaky clean in concept, I just needed her to struggle somewhere. I also wanted to introduce a family character and wanted it to be her grandmother. 
> 
> The second change, is Lupin and boy did I make changes hahaha. They both have this shared bond in this, I like it too. Hermione never had a older male character that she could connect with, she's essentially male Remus. Why would they not be friends? I wanted it so I willed it into existence. Love it or hate it, a Remus and Hermione Friendship is born.
> 
> I hope nobody got romantic vibes because that ain't it, sis. 
> 
> I gave him a few lines of POV - it probably won't happen again. Though, I never say never. I just like the idea of him having a little pack with him. He just deserves it!
> 
> Hope you liked it! Hope you leave a review too, this was really a sketchy chapter for me so any opinions are wanted lol.
> 
> I say this a lot but I really hope you liked it!
> 
> Until next time.


	6. The Wuggie Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred enacts his plan, blind to the outcomes. Hermione journeys to Hogsmeade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. That's three updates this week, a third coming this weekend, too! Anyway, I hope you like it. I've edited this and gone through a whirlwind with this chapter. Hated it, then loved it. Hated it, then loved it. Hated it, then loved it. I've gone back and forth so often, I'm still not sure where I landed. Anyway let me know!
> 
> Enjoy!

Hermione closed the door with the ghost of a smile peppering her lips. Harry is scowling deeply, staring at her as though he’s missing something.

“What happened?” he asked, his thick eyebrows wrinkling. knows if this were Harry, he’d tell her and Ron instantly. She supposes she should feel guilty, but no harm would come from concealing the man’s secret. The question shall remain unanswered.

“Nothing, really. He simply asked why I wasn’t paying attention – I was distracted. He told me not to let it happen again,” she lied, eyes away from his piercing green ones. She plucked her rug-sack from her bag, adding the new Honeyduke’s bar into her ‘Moody Ron’ collection.

“Why have you a chocolate bar, then?” he asks, his head tilted to the right. As if a bar of chocolate was an indication of guilt. How preposterous.

“What?” she asks, huffing a breath.

“He only gives them out for bad news. What – happened?” he asks, eyes tight as he steps closer to her. Harry was able to see things sometimes, draw connections even she had yet to arrive to. She’d remember for the future the significance of the sugary supplement from her professor.

“You’re awfully paranoid, Harry,” and astute.

* * *

Fred had been planning his idea for the last few days. Hail, rain, sleet or snow - today was the day.

Lee really did have the right of it, this was the perfect way to openly declare his intentions. A spectacle, an exhibit of excellence to spread his gospel. His main fear was exacerbating tension with the wee witch. Though George had the right of it, too. She was not exactly impressed with him at the moment, anyway _._ There was only one way to find the solution of her heart. Devise a theory, experiment and quantify the yield of his operations.

Lee’s idea was not the final plan, of course. Weasley wonders could only be devised by a wonderous Weasley. All Lee had suggested was the perfect arena for execution. It was so simple, he’d hit himself for not seeing it sooner. Her class.

In a perfect world, he’d simply ask around and have his answer. Is she in your class? He’d ask. Yes, I think so – said, everyone _._ Brilliant, he’d think, job done, Fred! Until, he realised it was physically impossibleto be in every _single person’s class._ For one thing, Ancient Runes and Divination were at the exact same time, according to Lee. She was a brilliant witch, to be sure. Sadly, there were not two of her.

He may have had better luck with the second one, if there was.

So, he was back to where he’d started. Lunch in the great hall, staring at the cause of his tension headache. Actually, he’s quite possibly further away from the answer than before. What a mysterious little witch, he thought. As he watched her lifting her slender fingers to her mouth, as the breath of her clapped laughter blew through them. Ron said something funny – rare, he considered.

Fred is man enough to admit, watching her go berserk with bludgers had set something off within him. The fact an attack had set his blood racing, should be more concerning. She was just so _raw._ So inexplicably _her._ He was shocked he’d not seen it before. The fires embedded in him burned for her. Short of murdering someone, there was little she could do to dampen them. Even then, he’d have to consider the circumstances of the murder fully.

The flames fanned, as her mystery soared. His elusive and mysterious little witch. He’d stare into the entrancing golden globes, as the muted grey tones flooded the gold, like light pouring through a steel colander. Fascinated by her beauty, coveting her sharp intellect and lightly barbed tongue.

The only explanation was nobody _truly_ remembered her from their class. A crime in his mind. Though, explained the inconsistency of the mock-timetable he’d drawn for her. He knew she’d be in her core classes, which was less than ideal as they were shared with the snakes. He’d make do. Hopefully, the grand scale of his spectacle would be enough. He’d already gathered the three elements of his plan. Accomplices, notwithstanding. He asked around for any girl in Gryffindor to bring him any Wuggies in their possession.

Wuggies are the quintessential wizarding teddy bear, given to paramours and children alike. Their tan, fluffy, elongated round-bodies narrowed towards their necks. The large bottomed torso covering their stout legs, causing a shaking wobble as they walked. Their squashed faces with large light blue eyes made for a rather adorable companion.

The Gryffindor girls reluctantlyallowed him to borrow their beloved plush toys, given by given mostly by lovers. Surprisingly, Lee Jordan had one for him, too. Gifting his precious Wuggie under strict ordersfor a _safe_ return from him. He’d made no promises, he was somewhat terrible at predicting her reactions. He could not return something that has been blasted with a flat swish of her wrist.

Why Wuggies? Well, he needed something to increase his entourage, they would do nicely as his companions. A parade of sorts, to proceed his arrival. What better way, than Wuggies? Witches went _wild_ for them on Valentine’s day. Was that day not the epitome of romance?

True, he’s good enough with transfiguration, though he can’t very well configure the bears from nothingness. No, he needed to borrow them. Use his transfiguration knowledge elsewhere. What’s better than twenty normal-sized Wuggies? Twenty _super-sized Wuggies_.

The one hitch was an unexpected one. Wuggies made a quiet humming noise – like a murmured conversation when walking or squeezed. It was so quiet, truthfully, he forgot they even did it. He’d not anticipated, as they swelled, so would the incessant nattering. He was almost caught by his swot of a brother Percy. Truthfully, he’d have disowned him if he’d ruined this. George’s quick _silencio,_ allowing Percy to return home for Christmas.

George had already enchanted the giant Wuggies to follow the direction of his wand. Leading the plush creatures ahead of him while Lee would ready his red carpet from the shadows. He’d already burrowed surprisingly swanky formal robes from Longbottom. ‘ _A good pureblood never leaves for a long stay, without their robes – n-na-nan says, anyway,_ ’ he’d said.

Lee had suggested a top hat, but that seemed tooover the top. Instead, he went with an intricately carved golden walking stick. The tip had a large animated lion that growled low as it touched the ground. One they swiped from Filtch, silly squib collected the oddestof things.

So, he’d gotten his three components together. Wuggies, runways and one dashing outfit. Complete with a cane, that could make Lucius Malfoy weep with green tears. He just needed his stage to perform from. Transfiguration was a bust. This would likely resolve in detention, and he did not have the head for Minnie today. Charms was a resounding no – the last detention he’d served with Littlewick was _excruciating._ Was Potions ever an option?

That left him with Defence Against the Dark Arts, which suited the boys just fine. He’d yet to get detention from Lupin - a crying shame. The devilish duo prided themselves on their well-rounded Hogwarts education, which meant detention under all educators. See? The plan was already delivering.

With the last brick laid, he bit his apple with a satisfying crunch.

After lunch, he’d gotten to the agreed meeting point to begin Operation Fred’s Witch, OFW for short. Running faster than the latest firebolt, he ran to the meeting point. He arrived outside the dark black double doors of her classroom, short of breath. He looked at the obscured doors, which was swarmed with waddling Wuggies. With a grin and tap of his cane, the boys got into their positions with the aid of some _notice-me-not_ charms. It was hardly _impressive,_ if he’d had help.

The double doors swung open as he got in position, with a gasping creak. Lee rolled his lush carpet to mark his destination, at the foot of his witch. The Wuggies waddled forth, as George enchanted them to dance from the shadows, their bodies jiggling jovially eliciting some hushed laughter from the class.

The bears finished entertaining the classroom of confused third years. One by one, the Wuggies began to form a guard to adorn his path. As the crowd dissipated, he was revealed to the enchantress. She was less enchanted than himself.

Hermione looked as though she was about to birth a kitten. He gulped, before giving his signature Cheshire grin with a complimentary wink. He righted the lapels of his midnight black robes before beginning his strut. With each footstep, the cane roared ferociously. Its jaw widening with a snap at each gasping student he passed. The closer he got to the witch, the tighter her jaw wound ready to release growl of her own. He needed to get his message out before he was prematurely murdered.

“I, Fredrick Gideon Weasley the First, humbly inform you, Hermione Granger, that you are being formally courted,” he said, with a salacious grin. Tapping his cane against the ground harshly, eliciting a bellowing roar from its lion mouth.

The kitten was no kitten at all- it was a mammoth-sized leopard. He could see the sweat creeping down her forehead in exertion, as she held her breath in composure. The sweat evaporated, as her blood grew hotter. Her skin seared so hotly - it could probably cook a nice egg, he thought. The intense crimson forming was a clear sign of danger. _Flee, Fred_ , his mind shouted. His lips twitched, a little before he regained his control. He was less certain if it was because it was him before her, or because he’d interrupted her lessons. A combination of the two, probably.

Yes, he could see she was angry. No. She was furious. No. She was _beyond furious_.

“ _How-dare-you,_ ” she seethed, as the classroom began to chuckle at their display. She looked around quickly, the crimson of her carved cheeks was medically dangerous now. He tried to appear unaffected, hoping she couldn’t detect the fear in his voice. He was not stupid enough to be fearless.

“I haven’t dared anything, yet. No, wait – I dare you to say yes,” he said, lifting his cane on to her desk and leaning over her.

“Never – you, utter imbecile,” she hissed, pushing his cane off her desk, roughly. He stumbled back a little with the force, he hadn’t expected to be attacked by his own snapping cane. Why had he expected anything? That was a mistake on his part. She was just so _easy._ It was his instinct, near impossible to reject. Even if her responses chipped him, little by little, each time.

“I’ll settle for a kiss, then – this was a lot of work, love. Have you seen the _size_ of those Wuggies _?_ ” He said, eliciting laughter from the other students. She stood from her chair, swift as a thief. He fought the instinct to flinch, his psyche remembering the last time she’d taken the fighting stance. Professor Lupin looked on his mouth wide open, as though unsure how to deescalate the climbing situation.

“I’d rather kiss a dementor. It would be lesspainful,” _Alright._ That one smarted, a bit. The growing laughter dug the knife further in, clawing the wound to open further. Is that atme? What a funny feeling.

Before he could retort, she raised her wand high, her small stature bringing the weapon to his chest. She spoke her enchantments perfectly, the spit from the speed of her voice hitting his chest first.

“ _Ventus,”_ she cursed, with a winding twirl of her pale wand. A great gushing of wind burst forth, lifting the parchments of the nearby students into the air. His long hair lifted from his hair instantly, as he raised his hands to protect his unshielded eyes from the slapping parchments.

Fred tried to keep his feet locked in place. Tried to fight his locking ankles, and the mounting need to buckle his knees. He spread his legs apart with a considerable effort, as he drowned in the blasting air. Her eyes followed his changing footing. Countering by manipulating her wand with some effort, fighting the power emitting from the end of her wand. She redirected the force towards his legs, shoving him forward, catching the wind and lifting. She expelled him out of the doors, with a strangled yelp from him as he lost control of himself. He landed with a harsh thud, as the doors forced shut with a loud boom. Forbidding him from entering again.

“ _Merlin, Fred!_ You alright?” George asked frantically, dropping his notice-me-not charm. He was better than alright, he thought, as he did a limb count. Yes, all four, same as before. His brother, dropped to his knees, his lips pursing.

“Bloody brilliant. Did you see that, Gred? Where’d she learns that?” Lee arrived by his side, raising his eyebrow high at him before looking to his twin. George simply shook his head, his jaw clenching hard. He was still unsure what exactly Fred saw in the witch, though he’d never voice it. Twin laws forbade it. You could question one’s taste in chocolate, neverin women. That was just poor taste.

“I did,” George said, choosing his words carefully. Understandable, Fred thought Katie Bell was a crazy bint, although he’d never say it. Albeit, some support would not go astray. “Success, then?” He frowned, George should know the answer to such a question. What was wrong with him today? He was as in tune with him as Hagrid was to Professor Snit.

“ _Obviously_ ,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head as he lay back on the cold, ungiving stone floor he’d been ejected to. Hey, beats Transfiguration.

“Oi! What are you lo’ doing? Down there!” shouted the meddlesome squib, screeching in his pitching squeal? Fred propped himself on his elbows, to view the rushing caretaker, limp towards – fast little bugger. He should get a cane. He chuckled lightly at his joke, he was far too funny.

“Away, we go,” said George, laughing. They picked the daydreamer up from underneath his armpits, scampering down the hallway with him.

* * *

Utterly ridiculous. Detention. All because Seamus Finnegan had to pick a few pieces of parchments, from some hanging candelabras. Hermione Granger in detention, had the world gone _mad?_

She felt as though it had. Every time she’d feel comfortable, something would happen. Between Sirius Black, Buckbeak’s upcoming trial, friendly werewolves and Fred Weasley _,_ she could not catch a break. Add detention to the growing list of woes in her life now, too.

Professor Lupin had pulled her aside, telling her she didn’t reallyhave to serve a detention. She could do her homework while he did work. Going as far as telling her it felt disturbingto administer detentions, as if he were duelling against mother nature herself. Especially to Hermione. She’d not deserved one, in this case. She respectfully rejected the plea. It would not do to cause further discord within her house. She remembered the last time - she’d rather not have a repeat of that. She’d take her medicine, dutifully. No smile, though – it was a farce, after all.

In fact, she’d even asked to serve her detention with another professor. He’d been taken aback at first, she acted quickly explaining she did not believe he’d give her the correct punishment. He laughed, before telling her he’d planned on letting her “clean” the library shelves. She’d almost retracted her suggestion. Almost, being the operative word.

She expected to receive some sort of tension with her schoolmates. She was pleasantly surprised to find that was not the case. It seemed people had grown used to the turbulent relationship between the two. Most choosing a neutral path in lieu of barely concealed hatred towards her. Shockingly, Lavender Brown had even gone as far as _sympathising_ with her. Citing his behaviour as unbecoming. It had done wonders to mend the shattered fences between the two, the wood reforming slowly. If Lavender could see that, she was not _entirely_ without hope.

Ron had kept his lips firmly closed. She could understand. She never expected him to go against the grain. Family trumps friends, even if the family member was an incorrigible git. Percy on the other hand, was unrepentant in his support. She felt uneasy in having the Weasley as such a staunch supporter. The boy was far too hungry, he’d become mad with power. Offering to inform the Weasley matriarch of her son’s behaviour, too. She’d assured him it was not necessary. Truth be told, she’d rather the woman remained blind to her son’s attentions. She could not predict her reaction, to either loathe or love the young witch. The danger of either reaction occuring, was too great.

The lack of house hostility was a small consolation for her. The world felt heavy on her shoulders – a burden decidedly lighter than her playmates. Harry seemed to be doomed for a life of constant danger, with less support than he deserved. It was for this reason, she’d barely fought his decision to sneak into Hogsmeade. Barely _._

The entire situation spelt danger. She reasonably thought that the professors should know where the boy was, if not for his own protection at least. Harry should not be so careless. She ought to march him back to the carriages by his ear, this instant. Then, he’d release a short burst of laughter and she’d stay her hand. It was so rare to see him so carefree, that she allowed him his moment of recklessness. One walk in the sunshine, before the nearing darkness shrouded him was okay.

Though, where Harry walks so does trouble. She seemed to regularly forget this lesson, no matter how often life beat it into her. That’s what lead her to this moment. Pacing outside of the Three Broomsticks. She can’t help but feel irritated as they await Harry’s return, unable to access the pub themselves.

So, they simply wait outside, as she paces the small area across from the offending pub. While Ron samples his newly acquired wares from Honeyduke’s. _Honestly._ She slaps the fidgeting frog from his hand. The frog took his leap of faith, bounding miserably into a dissolving puddle of snow.

“Oi!” Ron shouts offended by her actions. She holds a finger to her lips with a stern brow, before pointing to the deflating snow as it crunches below Harry’s boot. They follow Harry quietly, not wanting to startle the boy as he sniffles below the cloak. Also, not hiding their pursuit. He wanders to the edges of the surrounding hollow forest, sitting atop a large rock.

Ron takes Hermione's arm, discouraging her from going further, but she does, filling his footprints with her own smaller ones. Kneeling before the snow-covered rock, as the licks melt away from the heat of the sobbing boy perched above. She ever so gently lifts the wispy cloak with pinched fingers, revealing the nimble boy beneath. He stares into the mist, the brilliant emerald of his eyes glistening with the tears of betrayal, resounding from a time departed.

“He was their _friend,_ and he betrayedthem!” he shouted, the birds fleeing from their nests. She pressed forward, gauging her friend's emotional state. The gathered tears in his eyes, revealing the truth. Thinking a hug was the best course of action had the roles been reversed. Alas, they’re not. So, she stays silent as she maintains her eye contact pouring every ounce of love, she has for him in the breaking glance. “He was their _friend,_ Hermione and he…god, he betrayed _them!_ They loved _him_ and he BETRAYED _THEM!_ ” Her lips remain mum as he shouts into the abyss, wanting to envelop him but knowing better.

“Merlin – He’s my… _godfather,_ ‘mione,” his wobbly chin had broken the knowing part of her, as she clenched his hand tightly in hers. As though she was intertwining their lives, connected them in all things. He draws from the strength she pours into him, as his emerald eyes overshadowed by a pitch-black harden.

“I _hope_ he finds me. When he does, I'm going to be ready. When he does, I’m going to kill him. _I swear it,_ ” he promises. She doesn’t want too, but she believes it. She squeezes his hand, as words turn to ash in her mouth.

* * *

Hogsmeade forced the witch to reevaluate the dangers of Sirius Black. She’s said to none but herself, but she’s always been confused by him. The true motivations and tale of Sirius Black were unknown to them. Nothing makes sense. Even after what she had been told from Harry. Why did he betray them? Why was he so intent on killing Harry? If he’d been so intent on killing Harry, why had he left him with Hagrid? Why were James Potter and company friends with him? He was born from a family of known blood purists. Why?

She knew nothing about the man - nothing tangible anyway. Everything she knew was secondary information, worse still – tertiary. Possibly biased, too. That would soon change, she thought as she cut a familiar path down the moving staircases and winding halls, landing outside the soul of her Hogwarts journey. The library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's another update down! Can't explain HOW HAPPY I AM TO BE MOVING ON. Set up is the worst and my weakest in writing I think. I sat down for a good two days, writing the grand scheme of my story. I cried twice and nobody even died. I also became delirious at one point, as I found while editing 'whomping willow is the tree that hits people in chinese, that's just dandy'. Had no memory of that.
> 
> So, I invented wuggies because I wanted them and wished them into existence. I've been seeding my storyline into canon, so let me know how you think that's going - it it even is. Or if you hate/love this chapter like myself. Reviews keep me going! Even small ones!
> 
> Leave a kudos, if Hermione's wind magic moves you!
> 
> Until next time


	7. The Confusing Luna Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione begins her research, encountering some resistance along the way. Saved by an unlikely source, while witnessing an unlikely duo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. 
> 
> I don't have much to say other, unusual, I guess. I hope you like it.
> 
> Enjoy!

Not this one either, she huffed. Slamming the useless book, _Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy,_ closed neglectfully. Madam Pinch made a noise of abuse as she glared at the sheepish student. She mouthed an apology, voice muted to limit her offences. She’d spent hours reading every book available for any information on Sirius Black. She dragged her fingers through her fraying curls and peered at the towering pile of worthless tomes. Her pile of books to be read, was a pile no more. She’d exhausted all wizarding resources at Hogwarts. The largest public library in Britain and Europe, a feat she’d imagined impossible. 

She could scribe inches upon inches of parchment on Phineas Nigellus Black, until the day magic died. Including his historic hatred of his role as Headmaster, and the dreadfully dull policies he’d implemented such as ‘ _Corridor Courtesy: Single file and Saving Lives’_. She had gained nothing about Sirius Black III. Aside from his genealogical roots, she knew nothing of the mass murderer. Not even his year of birth could be found.

Everyone knew of him, but no one spoke of him. Everyone knew of his story, yet no one told of it. 

She’d been petrified the previous year, though somehow this would be her _worst_ Hogwarts moment. Literature had _failed her._ No. She banished the thought. There had to be something here on him. A register of Hogwarts students or a book of betrayal. The wizarding Judas covering the largest space of the text. All she needed was a scent to follow. A thread to tug. 

It had been so incredibly straightforward to investigate her muggle ancestors, that she’d entered this challenge with a poor mindset. Obviously, the circumstances were wildly different, though her previous method of research should have applied here. It was implausible, really. There was not a single book detailing the first wizarding war, nor a single excerpt on the heroes or the defeated. At home, she had a stack of documents on her grandfather, and his role in the war efforts. An array of medical inquiries, bundles of battalion information, newspaper articles… _Hermione Granger was a damned fool._ The hot scent she begged for, invaded her nostrils. 

Of course, there would be excerpts on him in newspaper archives. He’d been a _prisoner._ Surely, his trial would have been heavily reported? She could just examine the daily prophet archives, then she’d be a step closer to filling the pesky gaps. Now, where such scripts were to be found was beyond her scope. Though, she knew of one witch, who just might.

She grabbed her tower of shame to return them to their rightful homes before seeking the famed librarian. Giving an exuberant display of her reverence towards the hallowed books, as she gently put them away and lovingly stroked their spines in goodbye. All gestures of appeasement to the stiff-necked literature devotee, she’d offended earlier. She walked slowly to the librarian. Her beady yellowed eyes grazed the aisles, seeking miscreants with ill-intentions. She carefully considered what she would ask her, while harbouring no suspicion on her person. She would not outright explain why she needed a text of the entire black family. Truthfully, she only needed information on Sirius Black. Again, she did not need to know that _._

She’d made an executive decision to exclude Harry from this. His Hogsmeade breakdown, while entirely understandable, had opened her eyes to the tortured soul possessing her raven-haired friend. She’d bring him the conclusion of her research. He was owed as much. Though, she would not have him needlessly consumed by his personal demons in her quest. Harry was currently catching snitches under the watchful Oliver Wood, and there he would stay.

“Madam Pinch?” She whispered, the woman whipped her head to the forsaken, with a curled lip. It was now or never. “I was wondering if you could help me find something – I need to find newspaper articles, from the years 1980 to 82 – possibly, 83. Could you help?” She asked, weaving her head to catch attention, as the woman snaked her head about in tandem with her all-seeing eyes. 

“You’ll be needing to contact the newspapers. Excuse me,” she side-stepped the deflating witch to pursue any lurking vulnerables. There was no stopping Hermione, this was not the end of their discussion. She followed her, as she thundered down the library, her feet mysteriously leaving no noise behind. A charm, perhaps. She’d have to research that, it could be predictability useful with Harry Potter as a friend.

“Maybe I could access previous students’ records? Is that at all possible?” Madam pinch halted, her scrunching eyes stormy. It was more information then she’d like to give, but she held her towel firmly, giving in was unthinkable.

“Hogwarts records are strictly controlled by Head of houses – Miss Parkinson _,_ push your chair in – _I am no house-elf!”_ She fumed. Hemione fought a burgeoning turmoil, as she sought her ‘Plan P’, as the previous iterations were devastating. She’d have to begin numerical naming, as she was devouring letters at an alarming rate. 

Pity, the house of black was historically Slytherin ­­­– Snape would _never_ give her access to the files. The road was narrowing further, the paths distorting ahead of her. She fought the overwhelming need to throw a tantrum. A rare thing, but the build-up was tinkering.

Madam Pinch had forgotten the girl following her, bumping her as she turned to continue patrols. Hermione caught her arm, delivering her final plea.

“Are there _any_ other records I could access?” Madam Pinch hmphed affronted. Swatting her arms away as she’d freshly caught her meaty game. Two loitering students meandering towards the restriction section. Her deviously toothy smile was the last she saw of her, as she vanished like puffing smoke. 

The towel curled pathetically on the floor, her insides shrivelling with the force of the high decibels of her internal shrieks. The debate to continue was dwindling, as the roadblocks sank on her in quick succession. The fighting energy she inherited, was depleting with every footfall as slid to the exit. 

* * *

Ron would call her dramatic, and rightfully so. Not possessing the answers was not the end of the world. It certainly was no excuse for her indulgent sulking. She’d spent the last few hours debating her purpose in life, atop the vacant Astronomy Tower. Honestly, it was not the lack of answer. It was the loss of a part of her identity, dramatic it may be. She was the intelligent witch. The brilliant witch. The witch with the _answers._

Yes, nobody had asked the question yet. When they did, she was sure to lose that part of herself. Chipped away, sinking into the great wide abyss. Honestly, it was _ridiculously_ childish. No person was omniscient. Though, she felt damn near close to it. Pride was a sinfully fickle thing.

Her wounded pride led her up the shifting stairs to the deserted tower, with the strict intent of pathetically moping. She stayed carved into a corner of the tower pouting. Remaining until the sun drew lower and the crescent moon rose higher against the inky backdrop.

Once, she’d stayed far past curfew, she crushed the rebellion under her heeled boot. She dropped to the last step, narrowly avoiding missing the trick step below. Callous wandering was unlike her. She was far too distracted by her doubting mind. Foolishly wishing the story of Black would take shape by pure, unadulterated concentration.

"Devious creatures, don't you think?" an airy voice, belonging to a tall girl with brilliant silvery blonde hair. Well, anyone above 5”5 was tall to Hermione. She religiously preyed to the puberty monster to endow her a final spurt

She’d not noticed the invasion of the young girl, as she ambled the windy cavern of her mind. So distracted was she, she’d barely noticed the girl had no shoes. Dirty _,_ her brain pounced. She was standing in the middle of the corridor hazardously, as she watched the faintly lit ceiling with a vacant expression.

"Sorry – c _reatures?"_ Hermione squinted at the high arching ceiling, as night enhanced the masking shadows. She couldn’t see anything at all. She may need to see the mediwitch tomorrow. Her intelligence may be withering, but she’d be damned if she let her eyesight fall, too. 

"I rather enjoyed those earrings – the niffler feathers were a rather unique touch. Have yours gone walkabouts, too?" She breathed, each word high in oxygen, ever so lulling and light. She looked at Hermione with a handsome warmth, the paled azure was entrancing. She evoked a warm feeling – as though being seen for the first time after a life of seclusion. So fallen was she, she’d almost forgotten the fluttery girl had spoken altogether. She shook her head, an action that stung the draining witch.

"Sorry, again _._ Eh – I don't wear earrings. _A walk?_ what do you mean?" She asked slowly, her fingertips brushed her earlobes with a delicate. What happened to her earrings? Or, good god, _her shoes_. Hermione was facing an impossible task to not cringe every time her bright yellow toes caught her eye. The flimsy girl appeared as though Hermione had stolen her sunshine.

"That's a shame. I think Gold – yes, rose – would complement your courage nicely. Is there something you needed from me?” Gold? Hermione was utterly baffled. What was this blasted woman talking about? Hermione’s earring deficiency clearly disgraced her, as the pale turquoise eyes studied the ceiling once again. 

"What? No, I don’t need help. Do _you_ need help?" Professional, a mind-healing, perhaps. The blonde serving serene smiles, while spouting riddling nonsensical sentences needed something. She would describe this encounter as a calming confusion. Hermione felt unease when she spoke, while gentled by her soothing smile, all at once. It was somewhat disorientating.

"Oh well, that's nice. Nobody helps me," she said, a sad smile cracking her façade, as she policed the empty sconces above once more.

Hermione felt a depressing feeling. Similar to watching a broken bird fly on chapped wings. The meaning of her words was terrible, however, the tall witch seemed unmoved by them. That meant nothing to Hermione, however. After all, weren’t appearances commonly regarded as deceiving? Thin veils we dawn, hiding the scrambling chaos within. 

"I could help you," Hermione offered, meekly. The witch's eye twitched slightly, as though she realised she’d been speaking a bit too candidly. Her cheery smile did not disarm Hermione this time. The deadened senses beginning to shake from their snooze.

"Unless you've goblin hairs handy, I don't reckon you could help, I'm afraid," She said, a wistful tone in her voice. Hermione scrunched her sloped nose tightly.

" _Goblin hairs?"_ She asked, her a thin crease forming in between his eyebrows. 

"Yes, they're good at warding away pesky Nargles. They won't dare steal with Goblins nearby," her blonde eyelashes fluttered, disguising her bright eyes momentarily. What in the name of Merlin were Nargles? She blinked away the mayhem of the disingenuous speech.

Hermione was beginning to feel as though she were a part of a game. Without laying her emblem on the board, she was embroiled in a match with zero knowledge of the rules. The riddling back and forth was the only indication that she was being played for a fiddle. She needed to swerve the conversation back on track. Allowing the girls’ neon balls of lunacy to tumble where they may, while the adults played the real game. She squinted eyes at her. Knowing trickery was afoot helped her thin her thoughts.

The girl wore a shaggy electric blue bracelet. Ravenclaw, maybe? Equally telling, were her yellow painted toes. Suggesting she was facing a shrewd badger. She shuddered remembering her naked toes. She despised bare feet. Off-track, once again! 

A wild thought occurred. Perhaps the opposing colours were another calculation. A magician’s misdirection. Her thinning cheeks, as the shed the layers of childhood suggested she was in early puberty like herself. A possible year-mate, even. She relived the memory of her sorting ceremony like a flickering slideshow behind her curtained eyelids. _Abbott, Hannah…Brown, Lavender…Longbottom, Neville…Lovegood,_ – 

" _Luna!_ Isn’t it?" She asked, free and loud. Fastening a smug victory smile on, to boot. The girl looked taken aback, as retreated from the leery witch imperceptibly. Hermione tried to control her grinning, she truly did. She was without success, judging by the furious blinking from the identified Ravenclaw. Fitting, she thought.

"In the waking hours, yes, I am Luna," she stuttered. _Oh, for Godric’s sake_. She was ignoring that. Waking hours. Really?

"Yes, well. You should not be alone in the corridors passed curfew. Black could be about,” she ploughed on, with a presidential smile. The juxtaposition of her concerned words and the helpless grin was confusing, but she meant her every syllable. Never mind, that she was being hypocritical as she was alone, too. Irrelevant, she thought.

It seemed as if all of Hogwarts had forgotten the attack of the Fat Lady. Well, except Percy. He was personally affronted this occurred during his regime, a besmirching mark on his white ledger as he started to treat each corner as an enemy. Instructing all the students to travel in packs lead by older students. His words fell on deaf ears. The older students all had suddenly jam-packed schedules, unable to adhere to their supposed leader.

"None of us are ever really alone, are we? Lonely _,_ yes. Though, we're never truly alone in this world," with a pensive regard to her imaginings on the sconced ceilings. 

The cloying heartbreak rebounded. It dawned on her then, the ditsy mask she projected was one of safeguarding. Come to think of it, she’d never noticed the witch till now. She knew most of the Ravenclaws by looks. They either applauded her or silently cursed her. Yet, she’d never received an intrigued smile or hateful glance from this girl in the Great Hall. Hermione felt terrible for being so irritated by the Ravenclaw. She was truly the worst, sometimes.

"Besides, you're here now. Though you could have always been here. Have you always been here?" She returned, bouncing on her heels with a cheerful smile. Hermione knows the witch had known she had only arrived a moment ago. She allows it anyway, wanting to locate the heart of this encounter, above all else. Even if her facial muscles ached with tics. 

"Are you, Luna? Lonely, that is." The staunch Brit within was cringing at her outward display of emotions. It couldn’t be helped. Shouldn’t be helped, really. She didn’t fumble as her engaging round eyes stared beyond Hermione. 

"In the waking hours? Sometimes...why are you wandering around?" She deflected, but Hermione had found the heart. She would be remiss to put it down, now. 

“Do you often _lose_ things, Luna?” She swerved her question without finesse. Safeguarding her secrets, as she worked to collect the little droplets the witch had left behind. She hoped they were lost. She truly did. Though, she’d a feeling 'Nargles' was a synonym for cruel classmates. She’d be watching the Weasley twins closely. If this were one of their thoughtless designs, there would be trouble. She did not anticipate the unsuspecting witch of possessing Slytherin qualities. A cunning that could drive the sorting hat to the breadline.

“My father could help you,” she said, the added distraction of her cheery yellow toes flexing. An assault to her mind and senses, as flashing yellow lights glared against her windscreen. What could her father help Hermione with, exactly? Her golden eyes laced with suspicion, as her feline eyes sharpened. 

“What are you talking about?” An untraceable poison lacing her tenor. The witch gave a smile that revealed her molars, as Hermione wrinkled her nose unattractively. Hermione realised without a doubt that this no Hufflepuff before her. How she ever thought so was laughable. The loosely defined Ravenclaw was not as ditsy as projected, she thought. As she witnessed her steal the control brazenly. Hermione did not like this one bit. 

“Newspaper archives. My father runs _The Quibbler_ – we've got a room full of archives, all the way back to the eighties. I could ask for you, if you like,” Hermione hugged her instantly. Briticisms be damned. The witch tensed before relaxing into the hug. She relinquished the control with exuberance. All in favour of her fulfilling desires, and the added self-assurance. 

She should be wondering how she had not noticed the prying eyes in her library. Frankly, she was too elated to ruin the glimmering hope she’d been offered. She should be questioning the legibility of a news source, run by the sire of the imaginative girl she was bound to. However, when one has reached the end of their rope, they simply tied a knot and held on for dear life. So, the philosophers say, anyway. Who was she to question them?

She won’t lie. It still niggled at her mind, working its way into her blissful trance with whispered words of conspiracy.

Irrelevant, she forced. A poor man should never turn away warm soup when their hunger is unsatiable, and she was positively famished. She pulled back from the wide-eyed angel with a bouncy laugh. She should be scolding herself for her coarse familiarity, but she was repressing it. The witch was smiling softly, too. Therefore, her senses had not been too offended. She hoped, anyway.

“That would be absolutely brilliant, Luna. Really amazing, – I – I can’t thank you enough,” she said, her voice was breathy, with expounding joy. Luna smiled at her with warmth, and a conciliatory nod as she recovered from her shock. Understandable, she thought. She had pounced on her, a perfect stranger.

She opened her mouth to continue the raining praise, before noticing the flashing of bright white eclipsing Luna’s face. She whipped her head around, spotting the advancing couple and their lighted wands. 

Hermione’s exhaled her fleeting breaths. She’d already gotten one detention. A farce, to be sure. She’d forced the claws of her DADA professor to dole out her penance. If she gets a second one this week, the fabric of her reality may tear. Of course, she was out past curfew and would be deserving of it. Luna concealed herself behind Hermione, condensing herself further to the naked eye. Hermione had resigned herself to her just fate. Could she subject Luna to the same? She’d just given her something special, was her reward to be punishment? 

She grabbed Luna’s hand, dragging her down the dimly lit corridor. Luna accepted without hesitation, as Hermione was the strongest horse left in the race. She looked left and right, as she mentally stoked the cooling coals, forcing the mental churning. She sifted through her catalogue, organising her arsenal of spells and devising an escape. 

Hermione forced Luna behind a sturdy column, with a risky first attempt at a Disillusionment charm. She tapped Luna’s head with a clean mind, as she chanted the fifth-year charm. It was murky try, as her taller form camouflaged to the stone behind her. The stone lost its grainy stone texture, Luna’s body was a blur though easily spotted if you looked close enough. It was disappointing but would have to do. She twirled her wand three times around her own head, and chanting. Cursing her pronounced gulp, as the feeling of a cool liquid washing her body began. She could only hope the cover of night would work with her shoddy spell work.

“It’s not your job to question, Severus,” said the Headmaster, like a parent explaining morality to a disobedient child.

“I have always known what my job was Albus, your reminder is _unnecessary,_ ” sniped Snape. His thin hair snaking over his slick forehead.

“I wish it were so. In any case, I do not need to explain myself. Nor should you come to me with bias, and no evidence, whatsoever,” he said, his statement hard and final. Hermione absentmindedly leaned into their conversation as they strolled through the wide corridor. 

“I do not need evidence when their allegiance to one another is widely _established._ It was foolhardy to bring him here,” Bring who? She was concentrating on the jittery man. He schooled his loss of patience with the Headmaster, flattening his tensed hands against his sides.

“As I said, I do not need to justify myself to you, Severus. Your unfounded opinions are duly noted,” but the dismissive tone, accompanied by his disconnected eyes demeaned his words. Who were they discussing? She was seeing a side of Snape she’d never seen before. An anxious side. A version with no correlation with the honed man she knew. Knew of.

“I fear your wilful ignorance shall doom us all, Albus,” Snape stopped dead in his tracks. Hermione moved closer again, forgetting Luna completely. The defender of light whirled around to reproach his Potions professor. His features flat were unassuming, while his irises became glacial. He looked to the grease-layered man for a moment with a brutal gaze, that could cripple the world’s most fragrant flowers. 

Hermione was on edge. Her investment was high, deriding her normally infallible wits as she crept closer. Edging further from the safety of the gritty pillar. His eyes lacked their usual heat. She imagined those eyes were a regular haunt to Grindelwald, as he decayed in Azkaban. 

The headmaster’s eyes flickered over the shoulder of her scraggy professor, staring through her subpar spell. His eyes narrowed as he examined the blurring landscape before him. Not only had she been caught galivanting after hours, but she’d been caught with burning ears. Eavesdropping on the private conversations. 

“Goodnight, Severus,” he dismissed, carefully quiet, an implicit command hidden within. He did not break his connection with the concealed Hermione. She could swear he could see her eyes as he centred her blown pupils. 

Snape looked over his shoulder, to the scene behind him. Hermione cringed with the utter embarrassment. The esteemed man glared behind him with disgust before his caped robes swam around him as the air assaulted the fabric while he snaked away without farewells. 

Hermione had almost forgotten she was disillusioned, his penetrating gaze was too convincing. She could not find her voice as it was buried in an open grave, covered by her shame and concealed by her embarrassment. She didn’t bother to look for Luna, not wanting to reveal her location. She prayed she’d been wiser than she. 

“It is rather late…” he spoke, shattering their connection to look around the aged halls. She knew it was impossible for him to identify her. Though, he’d probably known by the poorly practised spell that it was a younger student. She prayed for Luna, once more. Hoping her charm was better than she remembered. “…I think I should head to bed, too…” his shrewd eyes squeezed her again, flaying her quickly. “Goodnight, Miss. Granger,” he said, his eyes easing in their cruelty as she wheezed softly. 

She’d never doubted her headmaster’s capabilities. After all, he was renowned for his immeasurable skill and famed for his duels. He was the man and the legend in one. She’d never doubted him, though to believe is vastly different than to see. The man did not linger. Effortlessly imparting his superiority, he granted her a final challenging glance, before resuming his paced walk. 

Once she saw the last of his dusty sky-blue robes, she dropped her spell with a wheezed _finite incantantem_. Luna came into view, after performing her own counter-spell. Having wisely remained in her position during the exchange. At least, she’d known Professor Dumbledore was not completely absolute. 

Luna had been spelt into submission, too. Aware of what occurred but unable to describe it. They stayed like that, silently appealing one another. At least Luna was of a like mind, she thought. Harry and Ron could see what they saw, without truly seeing it. Luna’s agape mouth understood. 

“Thank you,” Luna said, to the sacrificial lamb before her. She was sure that there would be some sort of consequence, even if she could not see it. Maybe, her silence was as good as punishment for the wizard. His identification of her was one of those unspoken threats, he gave Snape earlier. He was not to speak of what she’d heard. Not that she could, she had no idea of _what_ she had seen, exactly. Though, she was not the only one who’d witnessed it, now was she? 

“No point in both of us being caught,” she conceded, alternating her footing where she stood.

“Still, thanks,” she reiterated. The serious expression did not become the Ravenclaw. She much preferred her self-invented vacancy, to her bottomless gratitude. She bowed her head in recognition, rather than dull acceptance. The blonde witch understood, mimicking her efforts with a nod of acknowledgement.

“See you around?” she asked, uncertainty in the barely-there break. 

“Of course,” she said, a proud beam on her lips as the witch’s eyes recommenced their gleaming shine. The comforting return of warmth was her optimistic beacon, that something good had happened tonight. 

They spoke their farewells in kindness and recognition, before departing as unlikely allies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's another update. Possibly a day late, but I'm being kind to myself as I gave two additional updates last week. Early, or late - it's debatable. So, I wanted to add Luna and I've done it now and it's earlier than canon but it fit with the direction of the story. No Fred in this chapter, but he shall be at large in the next one - don't worry. Besides, he had a lot in the last chapter so I didn't want to beat the horse, too heavily.
> 
> Hermione had very little female friends in the books, which was regrettable, in my opinion. I get she's not the usual teenage girl, but neither was Luna. She was only ever friends with Ginny really, and I wanted to give her another girl friend. So, another unlikely friendship is born. 
> 
> So, I hope you liked it. I'd love to her your thoughts, I really appreciate your kudos, reviews and comments. Oh, that reminds me, thanks again to the comment from anon, mischievous! You can all thank them for reminding me Grammarly was a thing that existed lol. 
> 
> If there was to be other minor relationships within this, what would you chose? I'm designing the later stages now, so I'll be pairing some off but I won't really be focusing on their relationships. I'd love to hear your input!
> 
> Until next time


	8. Is it a...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione thinks about the moonlit conversation at breakfast, before heading to detention. It was no normal detention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter, which will probably be the new norm as the story ramps up. Enjoy!

“You goin’ to eat tha’?” Ron muffles through a heaping mouthful of pancake, jarring her from her conspiracies. Ron’s expressive eyes seek her, a hopeful gloss coating his muddled eyes. How Ron hasn’t clogged an artery yet, is beyond her. 

She pushed the plate nearest to her, with the final pancake on the Gryffindor table towards her friend. A tapping sensation on her incisors, as a grinning Ron smothers his meal in grains of salt and lemon juice. Neville was a pureblood, and he managed to keep his food in his mouth. Ginny, too. Why was her friend, the exception?

“What’s up your neck, ‘mione?” Ron asks, his lip textured with crystals of sugar. 

“Nothing,” and everything. Sleeping had been near impossible. Managing a few meagre moments before the sun crept through the sheer red curtains of her postered bed. Powerless to her splitting mind, she laid in bed thinking for hours. One moment, she’d be grasping at her golden embroidered bed sheets with curling fingers. Reimagining the look of disgust as Snape scowled at her less-than charm work.

Then, she’d switch seamlessly. Mulling over the hushed words between her professors, trying to divine the hidden meaning without luck. It was stranger than strange, to see the exposed feathers of her unswerving professor. To Hermione, he’d always been unpluckable, never manifesting an emotion thicker than loathing. Last night, he was the same man, but with a cracking veneer. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but he seemed _off_. 

“Then what’s wrong? You’ve barely eaten. Mind you, I wouldn’t either if that sad breakfast was in front of me,” he teased. Glaring at her oats and yoghurt with feigned revulsion. She smiled despite herself. Ron was not the brightest, but he was a good distraction when you needed it. A trait that entwined the worrisome Harry and Ron tightly to one another. 

“This _sad breakfast_ gives me energy without crashing. Unlike that diabetic nightmare you’ve digested." A practical breakfast, though it was not incredibly enticing either. Spooning her yoghurt mindlessly, producing a squelching sound with each stir.

“Diabetic?” His dense eyebrows furrowed. 

“A muggle disease,” it was astonishing how closed the wizarding world was. In a perfect world, the melding of the natural muggle science and otherworldly magic would be revolutionary, in her opinion. Regrettably, such a utopia was idle fiction.

“Don’t know about all that, but it was good. What’s wrong with you then? You’re all broody and think-y,” she scrunched her nose in an ugly fashion. Hermione Granger did not brood. She did think _,_ of course, but one could not be think-y.

“I am not _broody._ I’m just bothered about – my Herbology essay,” looking at her breakfast carefully, as the lies spilt far too easily from her bowed lips. She doubted Ron would even question her, but Harry would. 

He’d become suspicious of her, lately. Suspicious wasn’t the _exact_ word for it. Suspicion, by definition, implied mistrust and Harry trusted her in all things. It was more akin to curiosity, though not as uncomplicated as that, either. A challenging look he’d throw when she’d leave for a class once again. A question shading his emerald orbs.

He knew she was keeping secrets. Whether those were the benign kind women kept or something else, he couldn’t tell. She needed to prevent an escalation to suspicion, he had no reason to lose confidence in her. She’d debated telling him about the moonlit conversation she’d heard for a long time. He deserved to know, truthfully. 

Deserving or otherwise, it invited questions she was not prepared to answer just yet. She wasn’t keeping _secrets_. It was more like a _delayed_ retelling. She’d tell him. Eventually.

“Of course, you are,” he said, smiling at his friend with a pronounced eye-roll and tossed crown. “You’ve written three times more than you need. Why would you need to worry?” Night and day, were they. The fairies on Harry’s opposing shoulders, rarely in agreement with one another. “Besides, I’ve not started,” he shrugged his shoulder, with a swig of his pumpkin juice as her spoon dropped with a clank. 

“ _Ronald Billius Weasley_. How are you going to write one-hundred inches of parchment in three days? We got the essay in the first class – honestly, Ron,” she huffed. He cringed with each carefully enunciated word.

Ron had no drive. When she’d force Ron to work under threat of muggle torture, he would write three inches in thirty minutes before giving up. Rushing out some haphazard attempt at an essay a few hours before it was due. He never wrote a second draft either. The very notion, sending a pained shiver across her shoulders.

“It can’t be that bad – you’re always so _dramatic_. Bet it only took a few days.” She didn’t deign him with a verbal spar, merely raising an inclining brow. He withdrew from her eyes, having inferred her meaning correctly. 

Of course, it had not taken her long. Her and Ron work ethics were hardly comparable. More in the fact that she at least possessed one. He at least had the decency to look at her somewhat curbed.

Albeit, her work was always ready weeks in advance and she prided herself on it. Alas, a cruel voice mocked her. With every turn of her enchanted clock, that warped reality became more and more feasible. Hermione was on the precipice of a spiral, and she battled it with all she could. It was becoming rather wearying for the young girl.

“Fine. You’re right. As usual,” a hint of a smile tugging his rounded lips, slightly amused by her beaconing grin. On rare occasions such as this, she reflected upon how similar she was to her beloved half-kneazle. Friendly to any who could appreciate her authentic appeal and dole out praise to her accordingly. Except for that ugly mole, Ron called a pet. Neither witch nor kneazle, wanted anything to do with the grimy rodent. 

“You’ll do it – Tonight?” She asked, pushing his half-finished plate out of reach. A question, though there were only a few acceptable responses she’d take. _Yes_ , Hermione. _Obviously_ , Hermione. _Without question_ , Hermione. 

“Could you help? You’re better at this stuff,” Ron’s shoulders heaved imperceptibly, shrinking into himself. Hermione snorted a laugh wanting of humour. On a typical day, she’d reprimand him for exploiting her, but as with her new normal, today was no ordinary day.

“I can’t. I have detention,” she admitted, flushing rose at the pits of her slight face. How embarrassing. A detention, she barely deserved but had, nonetheless. Judging by the bulge of his eyes, Ron didn’t think so either.

“Blimey – I didn’t think he was serious ‘bout that. He didn’t even give one to Fred!” he said, his voice pitched high. That was the only blessing. Fredrick would not be there, thank the heavens. 

“He offered to take it back – begged, to be honest. I didn’t want Seamus to cause trouble,” as preposterous as that was. It was not as if she’d blown his pages out of reach on purpose. It was an unfortunate side effect. Besides, he was the one who’d blown up the parchments with his failed spells to bring them down. Ron merely laughed at her reasoning. He’d have taken the out. Slytherin as it was. 

“You’re barmy, ‘mione. Who gives a toss about Finnegan?” An offended ‘oi’ flew from the eavesdropping boy. Ron didn’t even acknowledge him – further proving, how he felt about his feelings.

“It’s done now,” she sighed, resigned to her self-imposed punishment. When Professor Lupin had offered to let her ‘ _clean’_ the library instead. She’d almost given in, granting the witch access to any book she could touch was a reward in her opinion, and he knew it. A small part of her was still tempted to run to his office with her repertoire of cleaning spells, instead of the demeaning grunt work Hagrid would provide. She’d much rather clean the library, than the Thestral pits. 

“Bloody hell,” he laughed. She was happy he found the humour in her plight, as she could not. Call it self-pity, but she was wallowing. Mourning her near perfect record, as it died a tragic death. She didn’t consider her detention in her first year, a true detention. That was because of Ron and Harry. In this, she was the only one to blame. Seamus Finnegan, too.

Ron composed himself, laying his hand on hers and smiling a crooked smile. His chipped tooth revealed itself, invisible to those whose guardian was not a dentist.

“I’m sorry about Fred and all that – he was bang out of order.” Hermione jerked, taking a lengthy blink. The only other Weasley to say anything against their git of a brother was Percy. Even Ginny, who’d called Ron out for being a cad plenty of times, was silent. She flipped her flat hand to squeeze his palm gratefully. No words were necessary as Ron’s smile grew, causing her to return the gesture. 

“Come on, you sod. Let’s get to class,” she teased, wanting to revert to normal. Though the change was nice, lingering any longer would be strange for both. He rolled his eyes at her playfully, before yanking his hand back and wiping her away on his shirt. She shook her head, shoving him hard on his shoulder. A small grin breaking her affronted exterior. 

She pulled her shoulder bag from under her. As she looked up, she caught the poisoned eye of Frederick Weasley. His eyes, a corrupt black, were boring holes through the skull of his younger brother. She turned away from the intruding stare, as quick as she’d caught him. She was happy it was away from her, as short-lived as it would be.

* * *

The day dragged, which was normal when you had a time-turner weighing you down. Normally, she’d be dying for the day to close, and she could remain in one place for longer than an hour. Today, she wanted the hours to repeat themselves forever. A constant loop, delaying her detention for eternity. She bucked up in the end. True Gryffindors let the flames lick their skin with a protruding chin and a steel jaw. 

Harry and Ron became pointless guides to her walk to Hagrid’s Hut – a path she knew by heart. They insisted it was for the pleasure of their company. To _help_ her, they said. The pain of their company, more like it. 

_‘Where did we go wrong, Harold?’_

‘ _I don’t know – she was always wild – remember her hair? Signs were there...’_

_‘I reckon it was the books – terrible influence. All those tales became her inspiration, the mad criminal,’_

_‘A miserable tumble from grace, if you ask me, Ronald’_

_‘Azkaban next, I reckon. No turning back now, Harry’_

And so on. They continued to talk around her, encouraged by her sullen huffing. The constricting hold of her crossed arms grew more oppressing with each syllable. The final straw was the flashing bulb as they reached the hut, as she spotted the hidden Colin Creevey. She wheeled around to her friends, as the faces reddened. She demanded to know what was going on. Harry recognised her steamed tone, possibly even felt the stabbing of her anger in the magicked air. 

“C’mon Hermione. We _had_ to get this. Your very first detention!” His hands spreading to the open landscape surrounding them. She opened her mouth to protest but Harry waved his hand, ready to amend his statement. “Yeah, yeah. The first _solo_ detention.”

“We’re so very proud, ‘mione. Colin here, was only happy to help our dear Harry Potter,” finished Ron, through restrained laughter as Harry fought his own. Ron clapped Creevey’s slim shoulder as he handed Harry his photo. Hermione was ready to release a barrage of venom, but the unthinkable happened.

Hermione smelled it before she’d seen anything. With closed eyes the smell swelled around her, tangible in a way. A scent she’d begun to loathe – almost woody with some fruit, apple she thinks. A muted fragrance below it – cinnamon, perhaps?

“Well, isn’t this a _delightful_ surprise, love,” said a smug voice, from over her head as he stood behind her. Standing far too close for her comfort. Hermione’s anger was bouncing, petitioning her for freedom. She moved away quickly, a fierce growl leaving her as Fred winked at her. 

“Oh, this is too good! Creevey – just one more, get her face. Move in there. Don’t be shy, she doesn’t bite…much,” the flashlight exploded, forcing her back like a frightened mare as the light poured over here violently. Hermione sneered at Fred who switched his winking to the camera, flawlessly. The last photo of him, the cruel head voice sung. How had this happened? How was he here? Did Ron tell him? She wondered what Ron’s last photo would be. He was, quite possibly, not long for this earth.

“Why are you here?” She demanded, her hand flying to her hip. She adjusted her stance as Fred absorbed the movement with a wide grin. He must be a sadist, her mind conceded. Ron was dead, deceased and departed.

“We’ve been accused of stealing the clothes of the Slytherin team as they changed for practice –” said George, as he inspected his clean fingernails.

“– Defamatory lies, to be sure. Told McGonagall we didn’t steal them –” continued Fred, with a hand over his heart with an exuding innocence. How Harry and Ron hung off their words was embarrassing, as if they were not mortal beings. 

“– We only burned them –” George continued, with a charming smile and bouncing eyebrows.

“– Burning green smells absolutely edible,” finished Fred, with a dreamy sigh. If Hermione was to believe in religion or faith, she’d believe any with a core based on reincarnation. As her present self was undeserving of this, but her past self was most definitely a wicked sinner. 

“Brilliant,” Harry awed, as George bowed low at the waist. Children, she thought. What was so extraordinary about stealing someone’s clothing? If it was as a special as they made it appear, then siblings were other-worldly. Harry and Ron were enraptured as the twins and Lee described Draco Malfoy using a quaffle to hide his – well, his _quaffles_. 

“Yer ‘ere then,” Hagrid clapped his hands. The chipping doorframe shook in response, as he enveloped the small space. Hagrid stepped down from his doorstep, the aged wood protested his large weight. Hagrid towered above everyone she’d ever known. His sides poured over the straining belt holding his raggedy clothes up. Raggedy from interactions with creatures and overuse. “Ron? ’Arry? Yer’ not supposed to be ‘ere,” his eyes darted between the two boys.

How Hermione wished he’d included here in the category.

“We were just taking Hermione down, we’ll be off now,” Harry said, pulling Ron backwards with him. Hagrid’s sooted black eyes looked down on the small witch, his thin lips pinching. Hermione stared at the matted grass under her boots, powerless to the sheer disappointment on the gentle giants face. 

“Alri’ follow me, ye’ll be ‘elping me in the forest, somethin’s after my chickens. Ye’ll be in pairs, to have a little look around” Hagrid huffed, storming passed the group with a strict intent. Surely, he was not serious? The forbidden forest?

“Hagrid. Do you think we should be going into the forbidden forest?” Had he forgotten that Harry came across the Voldemort/Quirrell hybrid in his first year? At detention – _with_ Hagrid?

“Don’t worry yer little head ‘ermione. I’ll be sending you off with fangs or meself, be perfectly fine,” he hooked two of his gigantic fingers on his lower lip, whistling for his slobbery dog. Fang bounded from the hut, that slowly disappeared beyond the hill as they drew closer to the forest. Hermione had a rumbling feeling in her stomach, as the wind whispered through the large firs ahead. Whether that was the nefarious energy the forest emitted or a sign of things to pass, she did not know. 

“Hagrid, are you quite certain?” She asked in a hushed voice, a private moment between the two. She didn’t want to undermine him in front of others, especially with his ongoing Buckbeak problems. Though, she would never forgive herself if she’d said nothing at all. Hagrid didn’t seem to mind, thinking her to be afraid. Hagrid’s large palm collided with her upper back. Oblivious to his raw strength or underestimating her weight, she knocked forward before catching herself on the scraped bark of a nearby tree. 

‘Sorry ‘bout tha’,” emitting a peal of nervous laughter, that jiggled his stomach a little. “Yer’ll be fine. I’ll give Fang to yer group,” the dog grunted in acceptance, moving to her left side. His flattened snout reaching her mid-chest. Speckles of drool falling on to her chest as they fell from his glistening jowls. “He’ll not let anything happen to you, ‘ermione. If ye find what’s been eatin’ my chickens, send up red sparks with that wand of yers. I’ll be there as soon as,” his smile did little to reassure her. She stared into the murky forests, darkening as the night hours came upon them.

“—that puts... _George_? Sorry ‘bout that, Fred. I’m not bright on my best days. Yer’ll be with ‘ermione then,” Hermione caught the tail end of the conversation. She whirled around to protest the pairing. She eyed George and Lee who were sharing sly smiles. She suspected this pairing had not come about by natural means. Fred’s toothy grin could be described as charming by others. To her, it was positively predatory.

“Off ye go, we’ve not got all nigh’. Know yer spell? Good lad,” he gave Fred a hearty slap. He hadn’t fared better than Hermione, as he sputtered the lost air from his lungs. Hermione muffled her laughter, for Hagrid’s sake alone. Who was now apologising to Fred, much more than he ever deserved. Fred’s blossoming cheeks were quieting when he strolled to her, a skip in his step. She’d not expected this. The sole of her foot twitched, as her brain traced the fastest route to Professor Lupin’s office. 

“Don’t speak,” she said, laying down her one rule. Fang sat on his haunches between the two, a form of mediation. Fred raised his hand against his head sharply in salute.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she hoped that would be the last she’d hear of his voice. It was less common then Ron’s voice but induced heavier headaches. She narrowed her eyes, waiting for a sign of betrayal from him. When none came, she gave a slow nod with measured hesitation. 

They cut a path through the forest, sticking close to one another for safety. Hermione’s hands fought for dominance as they fidgeted behind her back. Fangs trotted along ahead of them as the first line of defence. He was surprisingly quiet for his size. She wondered if there was some Collie mix in the dog, as he was exceedingly clever for a canine. Her eyes picked any movements she’d found, her head snapping to the flocking pigeons or falling branches. She was a laser beam. Well, she was trying to be. It was hard to focus when Fred watched her with pursed lips. Ignoring their quest, perfectly contented to study her profile. She was happy he kept his promise, but she didn’t think she’d have to ask him to not gawk at her like a bloody painting.

"What?" she snapped. His gaze never fell, hooded eyes tracing the slant of her jaw.

"I'm trying to work something out," he said, as if it was enough to explain. Far too preoccupied with her face.

"What exactly requires you to stare at me, that is helping you do that?" She asked, shaking her hair in front of her face for a measure of protection. 

"Well, that's what I'm figuring out, gorgeous," her skin was aflame under his gaze. She tried to reign in her blush. Judging by the half-smiling man, it was a failure. She pulled her curtain of hair closer, ignoring the over-grown child to her left. Besides, engaging in whatever nonsense he was talking about would only cause deep regret. Was there something on her face? She palmed her cheek, trying to wipe the illusion away. He huffed, as though she’d just stood in front of the tele.

"Alright, I bite. What is it?" She knew he was baiting her. She just knew it. As with all things, her curiosity was stronger than all else. 

"Golden or brown," he shrugged, as though it was explanation enough. He encroached her space even further, as he bent towards her as though she’d given her permission. She most certainly had not. The gall of this boy. His breath stroked the side of her nose as she turned to face him, stopping mid-stride. Fang endured alone, while the arguing duo had yet to notice his departure. 

"What?" She said, with an incredulous laugh leaking out. The birds above fluttered their wings, as her bubbled laugh awoke their slumber. 

"Your hair, love. _Golden or brown_. I know it's brown with golden highlights, but then when you’re angry–” he whistles low, large hand swiping his jaw. “—I swear, it’s pure gold. I don’t think it’s magic. Magical, yes. Not magic, though. I’ve never seen it before, and I’ve seen some strange things. Once, I saw a man pull his _ear_ from his pocket. It actually gave us this brilliant ide–” he shook his head, returning his gaze to the wide-mouthed witch before him. “Never mind...ehm…Golden or brown, what do you think? Don’t even start me on your eyes. Fecked if I know! Absolute mystery, they are.” He wagged his finger in front of her face, rebuking her genetics.

"I knew I'd regret it." She leaned in close, as she sneered before stomping ahead her arms wrapping around her like English Ivy. The twigs snapping harshly underfoot, not even bothering with her vow of silence.

"Don’t start me with the grey. What’s that doing in there? Even more confusing. What colour are your eyes, do you reckon?" He yelled from behind her, as he jogged to keep up with the spritely girl.

"Bored," she replied. His laughter echoed and bounced off the greenery around them. He slowed his jogging, to a brisk walk as he found his place once again. She pulled away, though the limited space between the thick based trees afforded her little breathing room.

"Hmm, bored. Now, that's something I can work with…” leaning into her ear, while avoiding her swatting hands as she attempted to push him away." …care for a bit of mischief?” His hot breath stung her frosted ears, as the chilly November night grew closer. 

"No," she snapped, shaking her thick curls around her shoulders. He pulled his hands up in defeat, but she ignored him. She kept walking. To where she didn’t know. She’d stopped looking for the chicken hunter a while ago. She regretted engaging him, it was as if she’d given him permission and the flood gates were opened.

"So, what's the deal? how are you in all those classes?” She stiffened, covering her soft gasp with her long fingers. 

“What?” Her voice did not waver, bend or pull. For this she was thankful. Internally – she was bending herself into tight knots, little chance of loosening. 

“You're assigned to _every_ class, Miss Granger,” he said, his voice was lower than usual. She was ensnared, with no way out. She knew how to subdue Ron, but he was like playing with the cub. Fred was the larger mountain lion, requiring more tact to evade. 

“How do you now that?” She asked, interested despite her fear. Harry and Ron had yet to figure that one out, though they had suspicions. Fred was unfazed by the question, merely raising his left shoulder.

“I watch you,” he said it immediately, as though he hadn’t needed to ponder her question. No, he hadn’t found her timetable. He just _watched_ her. She wrinkled her nose and faced him. He didn’t look at all remorseful for the admitted invasion. 

“Well, that's not _creepy_ at all,” she hissed. 

“Only if we make it so, lovey,” he said, bowing close with a salacious grin. She pushed him away, with a great huff. She was itchy all over. How had she been so thoughtless? He could have seen the time-turner, for Godric’s sake. Stupid. How had she been so reckless?

“Neville swears you’re in Herbology, but Seamus is adamant you’re taking Ancient Runes. I tried to ask Brown, but she wasn’t very nice. Is she always so rude? Mouth needs a good wash, I reckon,” He pouted, but she was grinning happily. Hermione was coming around to Lavender, by the day. She promised she’d thank the witch for that later. For now, she’d her own dirt to spew.

A high-pitched bark whizzed through the air, her ears perked up to the sound. Fred pushed Hermione behind him in an act of chivalry, obscuring her vision. His harsh movement kicked the bark below their feet generating a puffed cloud of dirt, sticking to her pristinely pleated skirt. Entirely uncalled for. She rolled her tapered eyes skyward, exposing the white of her eyes. She was up to date on fourth-year spells. She could likely protect herself better than this tosser could. 

"Numpty. That's a _dog_ bark," wiping her skirt of the lifted bark. Fred pushed her back again, despite her sighing. His strangely strong shoulders were pulled taut, his feet aligned with his hips.

"That _thing_ is the size of a small horse. Couldn't be a centaur, could it?” He whispered as she perched over his tall shoulders in the direction his fingers pointed. The cover of night was shielding the full form of the creature before them, reared back on its hindquarters. Two spotted grey eyes buried in a black mass was all she could see. Hermione gripped his arm, trying to take him away but he refused to move. 

"Is it a…” Her voice laced with fear. Her eyes were wide and gaping, afraid to see the feral grey again. She knew divination was woolly, but a fool was she. It bore an uncanny likeness to the creature Harry had been researching. She tried to pull the memory of what he’d described but she was short-circuiting. She knew divination was woolly, but a fool was she. Fred’s arm reached behind him, yanking her arm and forcing her against his broad back. 

"Hermione, I don't like this. It doesn't feel right," his voice was steadily deep. If she’d heard it any other time, she wouldn’t suspect a thing. Though, now she could hear the distinct barely-there breathes between his sentences. He was nervous, too. As one should be, when they’ve no idea what they’re facing. His arm gripped hers, burrowing nails biting her. He kept his shield of her, despite the growing growls clawing slowly towards them. 

"Let's just back away slowly. When we've covered some ground – _run_." She whispered, fearful of the linguistic capabilities of the creature before them. She wanted to shut her eyes, fall away from the nightmare. She was afraid when she’d reopen them, they’d be witness to a worsening nightmare. She barely blinked.

“Best shot we have,” he agreed, at another time she might have smiled at him. _Might have_.

They mirrored one another. Three small feet backwards and never parting from there closeness. She winced as a twig cracked underfoot, eliciting a high bark bellowed by the wind. _Think_ , Hermione. Then she had a strange thought of Harry and Ron. Would her friends look for her? Would they tell her Grandmother that she was gone? Would they miss her? Then, she strangely thought of Colin Creevey.

"Okay, we’ll have to separate. Throw a flare towards…it? Let’s just hope it blinds it and we run like hell,” she loosened her grip, slowly. Dropping her hand, finger by finger. If this worked, she’d have to thank Colin later, too.

“Don't know who hell is but if he's fast, I'll run faster.” She smiled this time, despite her spiking blood. At his jerky nod, they pulled away in opposite directions. She couldn’t see anything. Her senses were exploding. She caught her last glimpse of Fred before she turned her head avoiding blinding herself. 

“ _Vermillious!”_ they shouted in unison, waving their wands in a slanted ‘v’ formation. She heard the snapping jaws as red exploded around her.

“NOW, FRED!” she screamed, before running faster than she’d thought possible. She didn’t wait for a reply, only hoping he’d listened to her. Please listen, Fred.

The blood in her body was thin and high in her head, as she bopped and weaved through the overgrown forest. Nimble and agile were not what one would describe her as on a given day. If they saw her now, they would have. The blood hammering her ears would be painful, if not for the adrenaline lacing her pain receptors. She didn’t look behind her. That would cause a panic she was not ready for. She could hear the debris of shredded wood flying around her, as she darted through the thickets. She wasn’t sure if she was generating the whooshing noise, as the wind whipped around her or if that was internal.

The world turned to its side, as her legs caved _,_ snagging on a hidden branch. Forcing her down with a thumping crash. A scream ripped from her chest. Her body tumbled through the forest floor at a high velocity. The rustling crunch of dead leaves swirled around her. Her forearms shielded her eyes against the wooden shards. The pain intensified as her body slapped against the base of a large pine tree, with a sickening crack. 

The adrenaline eased, leaving the skin of her throbbing ankle scorched. Tears forced themselves out, as her back arched in protest and pain. She whimpered, against her better judgement.

Stop it, Hermione. Now was not the time for your worthless tears. Get up, Hermione. Cry later.

She gave herself a minute to compose herself. Three breathes was all she needed. _Breathe in_. _Breathe out_. Repeat. She propped herself on to her elbows, to survey the damage and determine her next play. She hoped her foot was still attached to her. She winced at the pain before her eyes cracked open. Squinting in the darkness, seeing something she was unprepared for. It was not her ankle that alarmed her. No, the aggressive waxed leaves climbing her leg is what scared her. She gasped, instantly recognizing the invasive weed. Devil’s snare. Her wand. She needed her wand.

She flexed her wrist, hoping to feel the familiar winding vines, between her fingers. She tried to calm herself, knowing her struggle would only speed her suffocation along. The tears simpered, as her fingers sought purchase against the nothingness. She turned her head, as her leg clenched with the curling plant crowding it. It was not her wand she saw. No, it was two swirling pools of jarring steel that met her vision.

Her head fell against the cold floor. Helpless to the wracking sobs consuming her as the doom hit her aggressively. There was no escape, stuck between a hard place and a large boulder. Stuck between the threatening creature and the bolstering Devil’s Snare. She was awash with hopelessness, her final moments reduced to saline tears. She was resigned to her fated, keeping her eyes closed and flooding her mind with the memories of her loved ones. She had no intention of viewing her death.

Harry’s first treacle tart.

Ron’s crinkled eyes.

Granny’s wacky music collection and practiced dance-alongs.

 _Thud_.

A light object bounced on her lithe chest. She gasped feeling a tug to her magic from the object. She opened her eyes, shaking. Her wand lay between the valley of her breasts. How?

A sorrowful whimper came from the creature beside her, she looked to the beast with a heaving chest. The creature’s ears tapered down, as he cried to her. A deep crease formed on her forehead, she gawked at the wild creature. It moved towards her, despite her futile attempts to escape as the Devil’s snare snagged her lower abdomen in her duress.

The curious creature nosed her wand further up her chest in suggestion. The crease in her forehead shifted with the pull of her rising eyebrows. It wanted her to use her wand. The towering animal backed away from her with a bowed head. She lifted her free arm hesitantly, expecting some sort of punishment but the low howls were gloomy. She held the wand, unable to speak as her parted lips refused to touch. The creature nodded its head in consent.

She aimed her wand towards her body, maintaining eye contact with the feral animal with feline eyes. _Lumos Maxima,_ she thought, not wanting to startle the animal into fight mode with words. Her wordless spell activated, the blood flooded her legs as the Devil’s snare receded into the crevices of the barked tree. The fog cleared, freeing her to think. _The Grim._

That’s what Harry had been researching.

The supposed Grim had yet to move, remaining as still as a June night. She allowed her eyes to wander the animal. Its black fur was dull and matted, with a shag-like quality. She imagined that was due to its environment. If properly cleaned it might be polished and smooth to the touch. The paws were enormous, with grey tufts of fur hid the crevices between its toes. The fur looked considerably softer than his other furs.

A halo of tangled fur maned around the head of the animal like a lion, matching its feline grey eyes. The snout was elongated, unlike fangs snubbed nose. The animated ears gave the animal a friendly quality, contrasting its overall fearsome appearance. Then again, we only feared what we did not know.

“H-h-hello,” she croaked, her voice hoarse from weeping. A single ear perched from its floppy state, reminding her of her neighbour's schnauzer, Gimpy. She laughed with the silliness of it all, as she lay weakly under the eye of a _fearsome_ Grim. The dog – yes, dog – barked at her, before twirling around in a circle three times. It painted heavily, an animal version of a smile.

“I’m Hermione,” her voice felt new, as though it belonged to someone else. The large dog bowed in greetings, eliciting a watery laugh from the witch. He or she, seemed to enjoy her laughter, looping a large circle again.

“You’re not scary at all, are you?” She asked with a half-lidded glance at the tilting headed animal. The dog barked, the meaning lost on her. Seeing as no jaws were clamping around her neck, she’ll assume it was a no. She lifted her hand towards the animal, palm out as she knew fang liked. The dog crept forward, as though afraid to scare her again. She steeled herself, refusing to flinch.

"HERMIONE! GET AWAY FROM HER!" Fred screamed, sending a slew of red flares at the dog. She shielded her eyes with her forearm, screaming for him to stop but the sound muffled with the pained cries of the kind creature as the hot sparks singed its tail. She opened her eyes, catching her last sight of the dog as it scampered away. Fred ran towards her, skidding on his knees as he dropped before. His arms began to turn her face, searching for malice. She swatted him away with a fierce pout.

“What did you do that for?” She demanded, propping herself on her tired limbs. Fred’s eyes doubled before he scoffed, shaking his head harshly. She waited for his response.

“I’m sorry?” He asked, incredulous.

“As you should, be. That dog _saved_ me – more than you managed. You just hurt an innocent animal,” she knew it was uncalled for. She couldn’t blame him for not coming to her rescue. She was no damsel, after all. Though, she could not find it in her to care.

Fred flew to his feet, mouth agape and ready for nesting birds. “Innocent? He was the bloody reason we were running in the first place!” He bellowed. “You know what? There’s no pleasing you, Granger.”

She flopped back down, wincing a little. She crossed her arms across her chest as she lay unmoving on the ground. She looked more like a child throwing a fit for denied sweets in a grocery shop than the haughty attitude she had intended. Fred turned his back to her, huffing into the night air before throwing his hands in exasperation. He stood for a moment, seeking something in the night air. He wiped a hand across his face before turning back to her.

“We’ll move back towards the forest line and call for Hagrid there. Can you walk?” He asked, knowing she’d say yes even if legs were severed.

“Of course, don’t be ridiculous. Just help me stand,” she held her hands out expectantly. His tongue visibly grazed the inside of his cheek, as he moved to help her. With a grunt of exhaustion, she was vertical again. The trees laying correctly in her world once again. She bared her weight on her uninjured foot, fearful to test it as the blood thumped around the appendage.

“There – see? Perfectly fine,” she said, with a deep sigh. His tongue traced inside of his cheek, pushing the shadowy skin of his cheek out. He hesitated, before his back straightened and he grew taller with ambition.

“I can carry you,” 

“Absolutely not!” she cried, her arms flying to her hip. The motion caused her to wobble slightly, Fred’s eye catching it and raising an eyebrow.

“You’re clearly injured, Hermione,” he pointed towards her foot, which was twice the size of the other.

“A mild sprain,” she rolled her eyes. His teeth worried his lip as he observed her, clearly unconvinced. He didn’t agree, or nod his head simply moved out of her way in a challenge. She lifted her chin, ready to prove him wrong. Yes, the pain was extraordinary, but she’d fallen in muggle PE class before. She just needed to walk it off, the pain would ease up. She took a determined step forward, faltering immediately as she sky-rocketed to the floor. Fred was expecting her utter failure, already catching her from behind. 

“Stubborn Wench – that’s it!” He snapped, hauling Hermione over his shoulder. Despite her seizing muscles, she fisted his wide back harshly. The strong muscles were unyielding to her fisted rage, refusing to surrender. 

“Frederick Gideon Weasley! Put me down, this second!” She shouted, each word dotted with a scathing smack. If it hurt, he conveyed no signs of pain. 

“It’s this or bridal style. Your choice, love. You’re not walking – because you _can’t_ ,” he said calmly, his hands never moving from her mid-thighs. She scoffed, though she was glad he could not see her reddening face. She harrumphed, before loosening her rigid set. There was little she could do besides hex him, which would leave them both unable to walk. He took some pity on her by remaining silent, as she hung sadly from his shoulder. Thank Merlin for small mercies. She was feeling rather dizzy from her limp position, though she refused to be carried as if she were a blushing maiden. Drowning brain cells be damned – she has more than enough, anyway.

“Here we are,” he said, sliding the woozy witch down his long torso before sending the red flares to the sky for their Professor. She was being impetuous. He was helping her – even if she’d never admit to needing it. He’d even tried to _save_ her, even if he’d _saved_ her from a glorified Shih Tzu. 

She looked to his forehead for any visible signs of exhaustion. A patchy redness or a single bead of sweat but neither were found. In fairness to Quidditch, for all its faults, it kept its players at peak fitness. It probably wasn’t easy, all the same. She was no feather. He’d performed a thankless job, that deserved some acknowledgement from her. Her Grandmother would be ashamed of her – ongoing feud or not. 

“I – you –” she frowned, the words caught in her larynx and refusing to exit. Fred looked at her strangely, eyes examining the condition of her pupils. “Thanks for carrying me,” _not that I needed it_. He jerked his head from her vision. He’d yet to let her go, she was appreciative of that too. Her dead limbs were of no use to her. 

“Anytime,” he replied, his smile forced and not fully facing her. She reckons she knows why he's acting this way. The absence of praise for his other feat. She withheld her eye-roll, he had helped her. In his own, misguided way.

“Thanks for _saving_ me. Even if it wasn’t necessary-” he rolled his eyes, the forced smile dropping exposing his irritation in his curling lip. She held her finger up, to halt his attitude. “You didn’t know that and helped me, anyway,” she rushed. He searched her eyes for something, she didn’t know what, but his curled lip relaxed. His smile was small – and real.

“Anytime,” he repeated. For once, Hermione smiled back.

“Whats ‘appened you?” Hagrid rushed from a diverging path. She pulled away from Fred, though allowed him to support her injured side under her arm. She had warned him earlier. She’d even contemplated giving him a piece of her mind while she was drooped over Fred, but his current watery eyes blocked her.

“Found the source of your chicken problem – a dog,” she said, ignoring Fred’s scoffing. It couldn’t be a grim, it was an impossibly large dog. It was too kind to be the creature Harry described. Hagrid stopped in his path, torn between fussing over her and interrogating her. He loved his chickens as much as Hermione – possibly more. He roved over her body, considering her injuries with narrowed eyes. It was her pride that was shattered more than anything. Her ankle smarted a bit, too.

Hagrid approached, getting a closer at the injured witch and wizard. Frederick was in shambles, a small cut grazing blood down his left cheek. Probably a rogue branch. His hair stuck our in all direction, muddy hand marks covering any exposed skin. God knows what she looked like. Hagrid looked fit to burst, a wash with self-hatred. He wore a similar look when Draco was attacked. Maybe he feared his new job role? She knew nobody here would complain, unless someone told Molly Weasley. The woman was far too invested in her children. Not that she knew what that was like. Hagrid whistled for Fangs, as sweat accumulated on his forehead.

“Don’t worry Hagrid. We’re alright, right Fred?” She snapped her head to her current support system, holding a silent conversation with her eyes. Fred’s bronzed eyes narrowed, wanting to protest her decision. It seems he’s not too happy with the Care of Magical Creatures professor. Not that she could blame him, he’d been wreckless. Hell, she’d even warned him before of this. She gripped his arm softy. Fluttering her eyelashes in a way that always made Granny Ruth give her more ice-cream.

“Yes, barely scratched,” he said, he sighed in acquiescence. His upper lip jerked as Hermione beamed at him before returning to look at the fidgety professor.

“Was it-” he stopped himself, realising there were more important things than his questions. Hermione empathised with a hungry mind. Fred’s foot restlessly tapped on the marshy ground.

“Yes, Hagrid?” she encouraged, with a placed smile. Schooling her features to hide the persistent throb of her aching back and swelled foot. 

“Was it –” he hesitated once again, though her encouraging nod emboldened him. He sighed before pressing on, with one eye closed “– a _nice_ dog?”

Fred was almost bent at the waist from laughter. If Incredulity or amusement was the source, she couldn’t determine. Hermione schooled her features as Hagrid’s face bloomed in embarrassment. Of course, he’d ask that. She knew her answer, even if Fred protested it.

“Yes. Yes, I think so, Hagrid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,  
> I absolutely love this chapter. it was so fun to write and I didn't want to stop. I had to edit this down from 10,000 words, and it was a painful edit because I wanted to keep everything lol. 
> 
> Apologies for the late arrival but I was on holiday, and cocktails were of a higher priority lol. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Next update will probably be Tuesday/Wednesday. Lot of editing to do! Thanks for the kudos/reviews, I really appreciate your thoughts!
> 
> Leave a kudos or review, if you're so inclined.
> 
> Until next time


	9. The Rescue of a Fair Maiden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione licks her wounds, before getting an unexpected visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, this late arrival!

That Friday night was an uncomfortable one for Hermione. Re-growing snapped bones was a horrid affair, she should have had more sympathy for Harry last year. The pain potions helped ease the pain, but the unnerving sensation of disappearing and reappearing bones remained. Madam Pomfrey had fretted over Hermione since she’d crossed the doorway. Well, more like glided across the doorway, as Hagrid’s limbering frame carried her. 

She was diagnosed with a shattered fibula, a torn Achilles tendon and bruised ribs. Madam Pomfrey admonished Hagrid for not immediately sending for her, worried her ribs could have been damaged further by the hike back. In truth, Hermione couldn’t feel the bruised ribs until she’d been told of the injury. Once she’d been told, she’d felt the stabbing sensation flitting across her ribcage, giving her an unwelcome greeting. 

Fred had a few superficial cuts, which were swiftly closed with a flicked wand. He didn’t argue with McGonagall when she sent him off to bed after his interrogation. Hermione had kept one eye on Fred during his recounting, wishing him into silence as Madam Pomfrey poured a foul beef-flavoured potion down her throat. What happened tonight wouldn’t reflect well on Hagrid if he gave the full story. Nor did she want to instigate a hunting party for the feral animal either. She had wanted to speak with him before McGonagall was summoned in her pale grey sweeping nightrobe. She wanted to create a cover story, but sadly, Madam Pomfrey had her on a bed immediately, ready to begin her prodding, and far away from Fred. 

Fred had complied with Hermione in the forest less than an hour ago. Well, there was no verbal agreement, but she thought there was an understanding between them. Fred’s lips were far looser than she’d have liked. Describing the journey through the forest with Hagrid’s large dog, who had abandoned them as a guide shortly after. He’d described the chase and the moment he’d heard Hermione scream, realising he was not being chased anymore. In a very dramatic fashion, she thought.

She wanted to curse him. Although, how many times had Hermione wanted to tell an adult the truth, when the three Gryffindors were involved in a misadventure? Could she blame him for doing something, she would have? No, she couldn’t. She developed a newfound understanding for Ron and Harry, as she pouted in her sickbed.

Her own interrogation was paused as Madam Pomfrey closed the curtains around her, urging her to rest and banishing everyone from the room. The propped foot was preventing Hermione from turning in her sleep, and waking her up when she tried to. She threw her blanket off her rashly, propping herself up to grab her wand. Throwing a quick _tempus_ , she learned it was only midnight, leaving her with another twelve hours to go. 

“ _Pssst, Hermione. You in there?”_ a recognisable voice whispered from behind her curtain.

“Harry?” she croaked with broken sleep. Her curtain cracked open a fraction, appearing as though it opened by itself. The gap allowed the cloaked boy through, falling behind him as he dropped the curtain. As the invisibility cloak fell, Harry and Ron revealed themselves still wearing their uniforms from earlier in the day. 

“Sorry, hope you weren’t asleep,” Harry said, an apologetic smile on his face. “We tried to get out sooner but Filtch was guarding the wing –” he lifted the rolled parchment in his hand as proof. She pursed her bowed lips. The dreaded map. Hermione was sceptical of anything =the Weasley twins gave anyone, but the timing of the magical map appearing was odd to her. The bow was tied too clean and far too beautifully wrapped around the nameless gift. Highly alluring to the boy with a fondness for lurking. She truly feared his easy faith in the map, a reliance she feared would lead the boy into tremulous waters if he was not careful. “—We waited till he left. Took hours.”

“Sad git was waiting for us, I reckon. Knew we’d come, just sat waiting to catch us out,” Ron said, through gritted teeth. “Map was a blood godsend; Mum wasn’t too happy when she found out I’ve already gotten five detentions. Merlin knows what she’d do if I got another. Probably a howler...” Ron shuddered. “...Had to risk it though.” He sat gingerly at the foot of her bed, avoiding the pillow mountain her foot lay on. He looked at her with raised eyebrows, as though he was waiting for something from her. What exactly, she did not know. “Well, go on then! what happened tonight?” Ron’s eye scanned her prone form, landing on her wrapped foot propped on a mound of pillows. He'd some idea of what happened by her position alone. 

“Could’ve waited till tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere till then, anyway” she sighed quietly. Of course, she was going to tell them what happened, though she had hoped to do it at a more reasonable hour. Ron narrowed his muddy eyes. “Merlin, it wasn’t anything, really,” she huffed, crossing her arms across her chest. Ron scoffed bleakly. 

“Says you. Fred said you were chased by a _were-bear-dog?_ Whatever that is. I thought Fred was having a wind-up. Then he said you were in the hospital, and we thought maybe there was something to it,” Hermione rolled her eyes. Of course, Fred had caused this midnight mayhem, somehow ruining her night from the comfort of his bed. Even if she was a little warmed by their concern for her, it was not unwarranted. 

She stared between her two friends, wondering how best to get rid of them and return to not sleeping. Harry was eyeing her, though his gaze was considerably lighter than Ron’s. She wasn’t keeping a secret or hiding from them, so their behaviour was beyond her. She was injured, bone-tired and in need of some sleep. Ron rolled his hand towards her, gesturing for her to finally start speaking. She let loose a sigh of resignation, before telling him every detail from the moment she’d last seen them. 

“… so, I don’t know about were-dog or whatever nonsense Fred said it was, wait…actually, Harry, it looked rather like that creature you were looking up. The Grim, wasn’t it?” Her head tilted in thought, Harry’s eyes widened as she’d spoke. She could vaguely remember what he’d said about the creature, though she’d rather have a more accurate answer than her foggy memory of his words. Harry wide eyes shot to her as he gasped slightly. She looked to Ron for an explanation for Harry’s behaviour. Though, Ron had paled considerably, ignorant of Harry altogether as he stared at her, too.

“You saw a G-Grim?” Ron whispered the cursed omen, casting a wary eye over his shoulder as if the animal was leering over him. “Hermione–”

“–I didn’t say it _was_ a Grim. It looked kind of like the one on Harry’s book. Besides, it’s all nonsense anyway,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand.

“Nonsense? _Nonsense?”_ he reiterated, his mouth falling open, closing swiftly as she nodded her head promptly. “Uncle Billius saw one in 1993. Do you know what happened to him, ’Mione?” He continued, ignoring her rolling eyes. “Died the next day. _The next bloody day_. It’s not nonsense, Hermione. It’s a bad omen,” he finished sternly. 

“How do _you_ know it was a Grim, Ronald? Not just a dog, like I saw? Did anyone else see it?” She asked raising a haughty brow. Knowing she had the upper hand of an argument they’d already had once before, and she’d won already. A good indicator for how this would repeat, “Remind me, how did your uncle die, again, Ronald?” She asked mockingly.

“You already know,” he narrowed his mud-brown eyes. She imitated his earlier hand-roll, asking him to tell her anyway. Ron sighed, arms weaving across his chest. “Fine, he had dragon pox. He died from dragon pox –” She harrumphed in victory “—that has nothing to do with it, at all!” 

“Doesn’t it? A dying man who died from his illness, or died from his imaginations? I think it has everything to do with it. Death omens are not real,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. Ignoring the defiant snort from Ron, as he staunchly defended his ghost stories. 

“You only found out about magic when you were eleven, but you can’t believe that omens are real? Or in Divination, at all?” he said, a disbelieving laugh. Harry watched the exchange carefully, eyes bouncing between the debating duo. 

“Of course, it’s entirely _possible_. It just happens that most accounts are rubbish. What was it again, Harry? A large, spectral black dog with…yellow eyes, was it?” She turned to him, he nodded his head slightly. “Yes. Most accounts are from people who are dying, and afraid to die. They remembered the tale of the scary black dog, as their body told them they were going to die soon. Any accounts of healthy people who died suddenly from a freak accident are written by other people. Why believe them?” She asked him seriously, wanting to know why he put so much stock in strangers.

“So, you’re saying omens, divination, predicting the future, prophecies and seers – it’s all lies?” he retaliated. She shouldn’t reply, recognising the never-ending circle she was willingly jogging around. 

“Not all of it. Just most of it. How my tea leaves fall does not divine my fate. It shows me that they have a higher density than water,” she replied, Ron’s pureblood face scrunched having no idea what Hermione was talking about. Harry remained mute eyes following their words, waiting for the final victor before forming his opinions. Surely, he had _some_ opinions of his own. They could barely tear the book, out of his hands in the library. “Harry, that book. Did it say anything about when two people saw the Grim?” 

Not that she was worried, it was all gibberish. 

“Fred saw it?” Ron whispered the question to an answer he already had but did not understand. He looked stricken, as though he would empty his stomach if the breeze blew. Hermione’s clamped lips dissolved. She may think it was all horse dung, but he didn’t. He believed the Grim stole his uncle and would likely do the same for his brother, now. She nodded her head meekly; he didn’t need to hear how divination was useless, right now.

They sat in silence, as Ron mulled the news over. Possibly wishing his brother had seen the mythical were-bear-dog, instead. She wanted to cast a _tempus_ charm, wondering how long they sat there for. It had to be an hour at least. Harry seemed to be working some of his own problems out, too. Hermione tried to not focus on the death omen as he called it, it was a dog. It was no misty apparition. It had textured furs and scars, and its breath was freezing in the chilled air beside hers. It was a real thing, swimming with the essence of life. 

“Hermione,” her head lifted to look at the raven-haired boy as he spoke for the first time since entering. He downshifted in his spot on her bed, facing her head-on. “Do you really think it means nothing?”

“What would I lie for?”

* * *

Harry and Ron didn’t stay for long. They didn’t speak much either, a half-hearted goodbye was the most they had said after what had felt like a lifetime of private reflection. She had no idea what was going on with Harry, last night either. He’d not even said goodbye, he merely stood and left after Ron did, both forgoing the cloak. See Ron was trying to come to grips with the information about Fred and the Grim. She was fighting herself, clutching her hands under her coarse blanket. Fighting the yearning to tell him it was nothing and he didn’t need to panic. Even if she thought it was ridiculous, he didn’t, and he wouldn’t appreciate to hear it from her. It felt as though she was corrupting her genetic make-up by playing mute. 

Harry though, she hadn't a single idea about what he was warring with. She hadn’t thought he’d much faith in the divine arts. He clearly had.

She was finally free on Saturday evening, as Madam Pomfrey was satisfied with her healing. Giving her only a single pain potion for any lingering pain, though she didn’t think she’d need it. She’d told her to be mindful, as her bone would not completely harden for a few days, healing twice as strong as before by weeks end.

She missed dinner in the Great Hall. For which she was thankful as she'd no particular need to see her friends so soon after last night.

Despite her dull afternoon, with not even a book for company, she had no want for physical company in the slightest. She was far too tired for a battle of the mind with Ron, or to worry about Harry’s inexplicable swinging moods. All she wanted was to sandwich herself between her satin Gryffindor sheets, that were always magically toasty, and catch up on her lost sleep. 

She sped down the stoned halls as fast as her soft foot allowed. The masses were returning to their houses, as the final chimes for curfew toned. She’d rolled her eyes heavily as she caught sight of Pansy Parkinson carrying the books of the _injured_ Draco Malfoy, as she complimented his bravery all the while. His arm too savaged by Buckbeak to reply to the tittering witch fawning over him, simply shrugging and asking her to be careful with his first editions she was lugging. 

She thought of her injured foot that felt as good as new after her foul beefy potions. Muggles had managed to flavour their medicine without magic. How was the wizarding world so far ahead and yet, so far behind? She shook her head at her straying mind. There was no way Madam Pomfrey hadn’t healed his slinged arm in a single afternoon. It happened ages ago! Anyway, had he not been such an arrogant sod and listened, he’d be fine. It was his fault. 

Yet, Hagrid was the one dangling over a lion pit, with a single string arresting his fall. All because Malfoy thought he knew better than the Hogwarts gamekeeper. She’d have to visit Hagrid soon, offer what little she could in his trial prep, as Lucius Malfoy would surely bring every incriminating thing he had. She was sure had she not been a muggleborn, he’d be using last night to further prove the man’s incompetency for the job. One of those rare times her blood had given her an advantage. Well, she knew how toasters worked, too. If she ever lost her wand, she’d never be without warm bread. 

“Password, my lady?” said Sir Cadogan the Mad Knight, as his lance swung lazily in his arm. The damn knight changed the passwords as often as the temperature moved. She should be grateful; the added layer of security blocked any more efforts from Black entering the room to get to Harry. She simply wished it was any other portrait, as this one was egotistical and spoke far too loud in the mornings. Plus, he challenged everyone to duels for no reason. How one even duelled a portrait, she couldn't fathom. She oddly missed the old portrait and her endless chatter. The Fat Lady was steadfast, refusing to even remain in the same corridor anymore. The other portraits were not anymore aggregable to the position, which left them with the lesser known knight. 

“I’ve been in the hospital. I haven’t got it today. You spoke to me yesterday morning, remember?” She pleaded as the dreamy bedsheets slinked further away from her grasping touch. 

“My lady, do you think when I battled the Wyvern of Wye, my horse fell because it was _weary_? I should think not!” He bellowed, and she winced at the force of it. She fought her rolling eyes and the swelling annoyance. 

“You know wha–” she stopped herself from calling him out. “—just forget it. Could you please call for someone in the common room?” she asked, more politely than merited. 

“One cannot make mince pies with spoiled meat,” he replied, brandishing his lance in a complicated pattern. “Duel me, and I shall consider it,” he finished, pointing the lance at her with a withering glower. 

“Just open the damned door, _you glorified squire_ ,” she snapped harshly, hands fisting at her side as she stomped her foot. She was glad her dominant foot was the uninjured one, as she’d be heading back down to the dreary cubicle again.

“I take great offence! You have questioned my valour, and I demand satisfaction. Duel me at once, wench!” he roared, trying to ram through his paged prison only to stumble back. She grunted loudly, dragging her hands down her face. 

How she dearly missed the Fat Lady and her ringing vibrato. She wished he was the portrait that had been slashed, terrible as it is. Maybe if she even just shook the frame a little, instead.

She slumped to the cold floor, as good a place as any to wait for a fellow Gryffindor to escort her through and bypassing the Mad Knight. She rubbed her arms, as the cold draft kissed the bared skin of her sleeveless arms. It could be an hour before anyone came to the common room. 

“Ah fair maiden, are you in need of rescuing?” Fred said in a high society accent, his hands full of stolen treats from the kitchens as he climbed the suspended staircase. She rolled her eyes, before climbing to her feet. Her lips glued shut, as she currently needed his help and what she wanted to say wouldn’t help her get it. Her healing foot had slowed her down in her bid to catch up with the returning Gryffindors before curfew. After thirty minutes, she realised there was a very real chance nobody would break curfew. Especially with the recent Black incident. She needed Fred Weasley.

“Rescuing? It is I, who is in plight. This miscreant insulted my honour and defamed my name. I demand satisfaction, good sir,” his horse reared, a loud neigh echoing the frame, as he lifted his lance aloft. Hermione hissed at the portrait. She looked to Fred, who had raised an eyebrow to her, but she only shrugged in response not trusting her barbed tongue to speak kindly. She did need him, after all. 

“Sorry mate, left my duelling gear in the 1500s. How about the satisfaction of the right password, instead? Merlin Makes Merry Mead in Mid-May,” Fred said with a cheeky wink to the crazy man. The passwords were devolving into utter madness. Most students were being locked out for saying ‘Knights knight Knights before big battles’, instead of ‘Knights knight Knights beside big battles’. Most nights, the staircases regularly overflowed with stressing first years trying to get to bed before curfew. Fred probably loved the chaos the egotistical portrait caused. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had helped with the invention of the insanely wordy passwords.

The knight sniffed before the swinging frame opened, forced by his role as housekeeper to allow them in. Fred jerked his head to the door, letting her in first and she couldn’t move quick enough. She nearly swooned as the blazing heat of the roaring fires consumed the room, instantly warming her. The oaky scent of the hardwoods littering the common room soothed her, as she breathed the scent of the days end in. The common room was empty, none of her friends were there except Neville who was engaged in a battle of wizard chess with Lee Jordan. He had an unfortunate nature, so he was probably losing. Unless it involved some sort of plant, Neville was not very good. 

“How’s your foot? Fred stood beside her, his arms full of smuggled sweets. Where he’d gotten all of the loot, was beyond her. She was curious, but her need for sleep was stronger. 

“Oh, fine. I just have to be careful. It needs to set,” she said, her voice was polite and even. It was the second time he’d helped her from a tight spot, this week. Third, if you counted the dog incident, which she never would. She wouldn’t start any fights, with him for the rest of the weekend, even if he deserved it. It would be more thanks than warranted, but it evened the field where they stood. 

“Why isn’t harry and Ron with you? Did they not come to pick you up?” He looked around the common room, for his brother and his friend. They were probably tucked in their dormitories, tired from their Hermione free day. No doubt they’d been up to no good, without her there to reprimand them for it. She may wake up tomorrow, to find Harry has found another Hogwarts monster to battle since she’d been gone. Maybe a dragon, this time. 

“I didn’t tell them when I was coming out,” even at her worst, Hermione had great forethought. She was not equipped for the boys, today. Normally, Ron cheered Harry up when he was glum. If Ron was down, Harry returned the favour for him. This was not Hermione’s job, and she didn’t think she was qualified for the role. She was the brains behind the group, she was no human pepper-up potion, nor would she pretend to be. Fred pursed his lips before his features smoothed, and he snapped his finger.

“You sick of Ron, too, then? He’s absolutely relentless. Wouldn’t even let me sit by the fire earlier. I tried to lift my knife at dinner, and you’d swear I tried to uproot a mandrake,” he shook his head, his laughter causing his food pile to wobble with him. The crinkling sound of the wrappers was almost like his food had joined in on the laughter, finding the situation funny too. “I mean, it was great in the end, he cut my meat for me. My hands are soft and free of the callouses of hard labour,” he wiggled his free hand to show off his wide hands, while his other now juggled his snack pile efficiently. Hermione fought her wavering lips, but Fred’s widening smile meant he’d caught her slight smile.

“Like my own little house-elf, he is. We’ve been brainstorming names for him. I’ve gone with Gingey, but Lee thinks that’s hypocritical—” he paused to run his long fingers through his locks. “—Lee doesn’t realise that Forge and I are redheads. Ronnie’s full-blown ginger,” he finished with a secretive smile. Hermione almost smiled at his teasing, before remembering why he was teasing him. 

“Why are you so unaffected?” She asked, with a confused frown. 

“What do you mean?” He tilted his head, not following her thought pattern.

“Didn’t your uncle die from a grim?” Why was one Weasley in a fit of panic, and the other gorging on treats? Fred simply laughed, which dug her frown deeper. 

“Grim or dragon pox? you decide,” though his rolling eyes, didn’t leave much room for decision. 

“Ah,” she said, unable to think of any other response.

“Yes - Ah, indeed,”

“So, you don’t believe in the Grim either?” She asked. Ron was just so sure; how could his brother be the complete opposite? A small part of her couldn’t believe they had something in common. Hermione did not believe it was a death omen. It was a dog, simple as. 

“Not a fan of the gazing into the beyond, no? Any case, It’s not about belief for me. If I’m going, I don’t want to be worried about dying. You may as well be dead then; life is for living. If I’m going, it’ll be with a belly full of treats and a fat smile on my face,” he said, throwing her a cheeky wink. 

“Hmm,” her inner mind wondered if that’s what he was doing now, with the sugar-laden goodies in his arms. Living, just in case. They stayed like that, observing one another with veiled curiosity. Fred was the first to break, displacing his foot ever so. 

“Hey, I didn’t get to give my proposal today,” he said with a mischievous smile. Oh, of course. The dreaded morning offers to go to Hogsmeade with him, they’d started after the first offer in her DADA class. She’d said no every time, the severity of her response depended on how many hours of sleep she’d gotten. 

“It would have been no if you’re wondering. You should probably realise that sooner, rather than later,” she rolled her eyes, as her hip cocked a little. As usual, Fred’s sly smile never faltered. He shook his head, the long red strands falling to his forehead as he walked backwards towards the boy’s stairs. 

“I’ll get you to say yes eventually Granger...Besides, I never worry about later,” he said, through his wide smile, tossing a snack at her with his free hand. She caught the package without thinking as it flew towards her, her reflexes rivalling Harry’s at that moment. He had barely caught sight of her scowl before he was heading to his room. How was he continuing this charade? What would it take for it to sink into his thick skull? She huffed as her fingers clenched into a fist, she expected her fingernails to bite into the skin of her palm, though they tensed around something else instead. Looking at her hand with a wrinkled nose, she remembered the snack he’d thrown her way, again. She looked at the Sugar Quills curiously, before heading to bed resolved to catch up on some well-deserved sleep instead.

* * *

“…Let her speak through you, call her to wish as she sees fit. Allow your inner eye to bloom and see the wilting world we weave through, for what she truly is and will be,” Professor Trelawney swirled through the students as they gathered around their crystal spheres. Seamus Finnegan had almost nodded off three times, almost cracking his failing head on the hard quartz if it wasn’t for the hard shove Lavender gave him every time he let a snore loose. Hermione stared through the ball only able to see the scratched pinewood table beneath it. Rubbish. 

“…As Saturn crosses Pluto at twenty-two degrees, expect the rippling energy to be explored in your visions,” her shaky vibrato flowing overhead. The only students paying attention were Lavender and Parvati. Hermione muffled her yawn, beneath her hand as she could barely hold on herself. She’d stayed up most of the week finishing all of her due assignments. She was struggling to keep up today, the sleepless nights gaining on her. She’d almost yawned in Transfiguration, though a sharp slap to her face, had jolted her up. For Divination, she’d needed something harder. A solid fist, perhaps.,

Hermione’s mind was a darkened dungeon today as well, whispering fallacies about her future failure, and cajoling her to abandon hope. She’d imagined for a brief second, dropping a class to ease the burden and felt a long-forgotten peace. She killed the image quickly, as even thinking of such things was giving life to future failure. It was not long before the year would be over, and she’d be back to her regular by her sixth year. She’d survive this, emerging twice as strong as before.

“Mister Weasley, you’ve shown a caving eye. What vision has she brought you, my child?” Professor Trelawney fell to her knees beside her focused friend, as he narrowed his eyes to his fogged crystal. Hermione had no idea who _she_ was – was she Trelawney? Was she mother nature? She hadn’t the foggiest. When she’d asked for clarification she’d not gotten a better picture either. _‘She is the wind in which we divine. She is the omen of all. She is she, my child.’_ Hemione certainly doubted whether that was a verified O.W.L answer or gibberish. She leaned towards the latter, cheeks burning at the idea of pledging such a thing to parchment. Ron’s eyes narrowed, his upper lip disappearing in concentration. 

“I don’t know, I could be wrong…I just see grey clouds,” He turned to his professor with a furrowed brow. Hermione saw a strange man going to his garden with a – _bag?_ Yes, a large black bag. She divines from the parting sea; it was as clear as the glass she gazed upon. He was throwing away his _rubbish_.

“Look deeper, shake the branch, my child. I shall see for you, what your eye has hidden from you—” Ron flushed a deep red, as the flowery witch pulled the ball towards her. “Yes, there is grey. Uncertainty in your visions, my child. The wind shall clear, but not before the jaws shall clamp you, a tremor before the moon burns her bright white. Check-in with your relatives, my child,” Professor Trelawney closed her eyes, breathing deeply as her head fell back. Ron visibly gulped. Whatever she’d said, did not sound pleasant. Fred was sure to have his shadow become even more pronounced, as he’d be the first relative he’d be checking in on. The professor moved to her left, flicking her loose knight scarf across her shoulder as Harry stiffened imperceptibly. She'd caught it, all the same. Ron probably would have to if he wasn't busy wondering if Fred could die from a papercut. 

“Mister Potter, has your vision found you?” She said, her buggy blue eyes scanning his face. Hermione resisted the need to pull Harry away, afraid the witch would deliver another one of her death prophecies to him and piling an additional helping to his brimming plate. Harry coughed lightly before straightening himself further, his shoulders strained against his creasing uniform. Still, he’d nodded his head no, his features placid as the older witch peered into his beyond.

“Not to worry, not to worry. Tis hard, though not impossible. Easiest, when you possess gifts such as I,” it was hard when you were not as batty as her, more like. She’d yet to even predict the weather successfully. All her prophecies were worthless, despite Lavender’s fierce support of the supposed seer. Yes, her rabbit had died on the day Professor Trelawney had said, but she’d said the thing Lavender had been dreading would happen on that day. Lavender’s rabbit had been perfectly healthy, why dread his death? It was a freak coincidence, is all. Her professor’s thick-lensed glasses clinked against Harry’s crystal ball, as she leered close into the sphere. She withdrew suddenly, taking a shuddering breath. Hermione flinched in her seat, alongside Harry as the class readied themselves for another promise of his demise.

“Ah. I have traversed your life planes, the crops wither as your greatest fears take breath. You shall lose, and this shall be your last, my boy” she whispered, her handed clapping his shoulder as Harry visibly paled. Hermione knew it was nonsense, and she’d tell him so when they were done but his vacant stare had made her question. What was Harry’s greatest fear, that caused the high tension in his shoulders?

“Have you faired better than your tablemates, my dear?” Professor Trelawney asked, from her right, the raspy voice drawing her from her worries. Hermione thought her binman analogy may make Harry smile, and that was the only reason she’d considered giving it. In the end, she’d just pushed her ball towards her, without a word. Judging by the positively salacious smile on the crazy bint’s face, she did not mind the chance to flaunt her so-called gift.

Hermione watched as her professor's unkempt fingernails screeched soundlessly along the quartz sphere. Hermione squinted, beseeching any outwards signs the seer was truly having some sort of spiritual experience. The problem was she had no clue on what such a thing looked like. She relied on muggle fiction for this, looking for white eyeballs or an eye colour change to occur. She anticipated a fleeting blink from her third eye somewhere between her eyebrows, but nothing of the sort occurred. After some time, Hermione’s professor’s buggy blue eyes began to flash quickly, as if her eyes were racing through a picture book at triple speed.

“As we suspected. Black colours your petals dear, likened to your aura,” Lavender gasped behind her, Hermione’s eyes flitted to her as the large blue eyes wallowed. Hermione returned her gaze to the professor, snubbing Lavender’s sad eyes entirely. “If you’re not careful it shall smother you entirely. Your faith lays with the maiden, herself. If you do not change, it shall become you. Left to a bleak and dreary existence, miserable and alone, tending to the bleak globules of wisdom of men who’ve long departed our light.” 

The professor’s dry hand clutched hers. Her bug-like eyes brimming with sadness as her lips dour. Hermione opened her mouth before quickly closing it. Her mind moved rapidly, trying to decipher the hidden meaning, was she implying she’d end up alone? Men’s wisdom? Hermione hadn’t a breeze. She slumped in her chair, dissecting each word she could remember. 

“I know, I know, my dear. Reality is hard to face, when it is truly as depressing as yours,” her professor clung her hand, patting it with the other. The older witch started shaking her head back and forth attempting to shed the sadness from her. Hermione’s eyes blazed with untapped fury before she flung her hand free of the pitying witch. What. Utter. _Rubbish._ Sod Ron's vision, sod Harry's and sod her bloody own. 

Before her mind could process anything further, her body leapt to her defence, her hand flinging the offending crystal ball to the floor, shattering into millions of glinting pieces at the bat's feet. The class gasped, whispers breaking around her, but she kept looking at the mass of bohemian knitted cloth in front of her. 

“ _Sod this,_ ” she hissed to the stuttering goon as she stared at the glistening shards of glass at her feet, twinkling in the afternoon sun. Grabbing her small bag of books, and storming from the classroom without looking back. Her timetable had just thinned considerably, and Hermione Granger could care less. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. 
> 
> So, I've missed an entire week. In my defence, I was dealing with a break-up which was kind of shit. I didn't think it would affect my ability to write until I read my writing and it was a lot darker than intended hahahaha. I'd consider posting it because it was so absolutely left-field to where this story was going. I then realised I needed some air before I could come back to this chapter so I didn't ruin my plot and the long-plan I'd drawn for this. On the plus side, I'd used it to fuel mostly all of my future angst/sad chapters. Upside, to everything I guess. Fifty rambles later and we have an update. 
> 
> Damn guys, writing prophecies is hard even if the majority are nonsense lol! Some parts aren't, though I hope their deeply hidden in there. It would be no fun if everyone figured it out already, though I'd love to hear your guesses. I hope you liked this chapter, I'll probably hate it next week and see every concievable lol. Shout out if you spot any mistakes, I rushed the edit because I hate being late, I think we're okay though. 
> 
> Kudos/Review if the wind moves you, 
> 
> Until next time


	10. Wild Geese and Raised Suspicions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early chapter to apologise for the last late chapter. The balance is restored. 
> 
> Enjoy

As her eyes blinked, the meaning of the day set in. It's Christmas, she squeeled. Her legs flailed as she frantically tried to escape the confines of her twisted bedsheets. She scrambled hastily through her empty dorm room to the awaiting pile of gifts in the common room, just for her. Oh, just imagine all the new books. She pulled open the door, and spied Harry and Ron opening their door, too.

"Merry Christmas!" they all echoed at the same time, beaming with the rush of the season. Ron broke free first, he skipped his steps three at a time to the bottom. Hermione hopes she was more graceful but highly doubts it. As she plonked at the wide base of the red and gold Christmas tree, Harry finally caught up and sat on tucked knees beside Ron. She could barely remain still, she clamped her hands between her thighs as Ron fished out the gifts from the tree.

The common room was mostly empty, the few students left in Hogwarts remaining in their beds or having already performed their morning rituals, and presently indulging in a decadent Christmas breakfast. Hermione loved Hogwarts at Christmas – the castle seemed to up its magical flare at the season's peak. The whole place smelled of fresh evergreens and decorations of all colours brighten every room. Even the knights lining the halls were wrapped in merry tinsel. The failen snow dusting the ancient castle landed the young witch in her own personal snow globe. It's too wonderful to feel down in Hogwarts at Christmas. A simple fact, strengthed by her achy smiling cheeks.

Of course, she missed her grandmother, plus she won't see her until July now, as she was busy lecturing at a dental school in America on the effects of gingivitis on gum health. Hermione understood why she had to stay in Hogwarts, she respected her grandmother's dedication to her craft. In fact, she'd inspired Hermione in many ways. Her grandmother was nothing short of the most hard-working dentist in the greater British kingdom. Knocking elbows with leading health-care professionals regularly, while nudging herself to the forefront of the industry through the years. It was extraordinary how she'd managed to do so as a woman of the sixties, overcoming the prejudice against her sex and earning respect despite it all. It was something she'd cling to when Malfoy would shout his disgust with her blood status. She'd large footsteps to follow in, a daunting idea for most. Though her feet were small now, she was confident she would grow into them with the grace befitting the granddaughter of Ruth Granger.

"There's yours Hermione!" Ron pushed the pile towards her. There were several presents wrapped in a swanky silver with her name tagged on each gift. Once she caught sight of the pile and the various book-shaped gifts, she was tearing through them as wild as Ron at dinnertime. It was Christmas, it was perfectly normal behaviour!

"What colour you get, Harry? Green? I always get maroon, can't even swap with the big bloody 'R' on the front," Ron lamented, folding his homemade jumper and putting it aside, as he fished through the rest of his loot. Hermione never got a sweater from Mrs Weasley but that was okay, she thought, stacking her pile of new volumes on top of one another.

There was a large span of topics ranging from the dark psychology of the eighteenth century, and several muggle books by James Joyce. She'd gotten some trinkets too, including a delicate silver chain necklace with a small open rose, and a wind-up pair of chomping teeth. For whatever reason she got them, she loved the small piece of home she could carry with her.

"Better than nothing I suppose," Ron sighed, adding all the sweets he'd gotten with his jumper. "What's that Harry?" He gestured to the large cylinder-shaped object covered in brown wrapping paper, shoved under the tree with his name marked on a card. Harry reached for the card.

"I don't know, there's no name…" Harry paused, flipping the small card in his hand. Hermione's senses were instantly on edge, who would send a gift with no name. A secret admirer, perhaps? With her interest peaked, she put her gifts down to look as her Harry held the wrapped gift making no move to unwrap it.

"Go on then, open it, Harry," Ron said, excitedly nudging Harry with a playful smile, wanting to see what the large gift was. Harry looked to Ron with uncertainty in his eyes, before carefully peeling the brown paper by the edges slowly. As the paper parted, the twiggy bristles of a large broom revealed themselves. Ron gasped as all three Gryffindors eyes widened. This was no secret admirer.

"Bloody hell, harry…is that a Firebolt? I read about that in _Which Broomstick_ , the Irish team are using those! They're worth a fortune, they are!" Ron rushed, his hand hesitating on whether to disgrace the broom with his touch or not. To say Hermione Granger was concerned would be an understatement. She knew as much about brooms as she did glamour charms, but Ron's astonishment caused her to question the true value of the gift.

"How much is it worth? Who would send you that?" She asked, trying to withhold the worry from her voice. She vainly hoped the boys would land on the idea something was amiss without her nagging. Harry was smiled as he stroked the sleek black handle with a gentle hand.

"I know it's mad money. Hundreds of galleons, at least. I'd need to sell George for that kind of money," Ron laughed at his joke. "Imagine Malfoy's rat face when you walk on the pitch, it'll be worth every galleon, I say." Ron had glossed over the sender, which caused Hermione to huff. She'd have to be more forceful with them.

"Yes, but who?" she said, exasperation clear in her voice

"Probably Dumbledore, sick of seeing his house getting beat all the time – oh …Sorry, Harry," he winced, realising he could've offended the seeker. Harry's brow furrowed, ignoring the slight completely.

"No, he wouldn't spend that on me. It's too much," Harry said quietly, Hermione could cry. He was finally coming out of his enchantment and seeing what she saw. "It had to be someone else."

"Who cares? We're going to crush those greasy gits and we'll be laughing this time. C'mon Harry lets get dressed and go try it out," Ron jumped to his feet, dragging Harry along with him eagerly, leaving the broom behind. She didn't want to fight with the boys on Christmas, but they weren't thinking it through. Something was very wrong. As the boys reached their stairway, she braced herself for the fight as she called to them.

"Don't you think it's suspicious? Getting a broom, right after yours is broken? It's from someone who knows you, Harry. _Who's been watching you_. Who sends such a pricey present with no name? Harry, it could be cursed!" Harry and Ron both looked at one another with raised eyebrows before breaking out into sly smiles.

"Oh c'mon 'mione, you said the same thing about the map and that's saved our necks more times than I can count. Stop worrying so much," Ron shook his head fondly, thinking her to be a silly motherly hen who worried about everything for no good reason. There was a reason. These sorts of things were not normal, and with Harry, not normal meant lethal.

"Yes, exactly Ronald. The stupid map, which suddenly appeared when Harry couldn't go to Hogsmeade. Luring him out of Hogwarts without anyone knowing he was no longer even in Hogwarts! Now, he breaks his broom and a better one appears. This has to be Black. He's been trying to get in! Probably to leave this in here! I think we should bring it to a professor." She shouted.

The old phrase 'too good to be true' was old for a reason, wisdom in the words that stood the test of time. Ron's smile dropped, jaw tensed, he realised Hermione was threatening the team's latest weapon in the war against Slytherin. Harry put his arm on Ron's, to stop his friend from fighting the young witch.

"Don't worry about me, Hermione. I'm sure it'll be fine. Besides, no fighting on Christmas. I don't like it," Harry's eyes shot between the two, waiting for a challenger who'd never come. "Let's go before the snow gets too high," Harry grabbed Ron's arm, pulling him away before he could protest and up the stairs. As the door opened, Harry turned giving her a reassuring smile that broke her heart, for she knew she was going to break his. "See you in a bit Hermione," his emerald green eyes smiled before he disappeared through the door.

He wouldn't see her in a bit. He'd see her after she'd given his new gift away. She knew they'd both see it as a betrayal, and she made her peace with it as soon as the thought came. She'd rather Harry hated her while breathing than have his body cold and unfeeling. Grabbing the broomstick in nothing but her linen pyjamas and socks, she fled through the portrait hole. She ignored the Mad Knight's call for a duel, clearly still peeved with her. She sped through the halls hoping to get to Professor McGonagall's office before the boys returned and figured out what she'd done. She couldn't let her stop them, she had a gut feeling and she learned to trust that feeling. Nothing good ever followed that squeezy feeling.

"Someone's in a rush. Delivering a gift to a lucky boy?" She stopped short of running straight into Professor Lupin as he waggled his eyebrows playfully to her. She was busy catching her breath, stopping abruptly had caused her unathletic body to catch up with the adrenaline rapidly. He eyed the broom she'd shoved behind her back. "Is that a broom? I didn't know you fly, Hermione," tilting his head to look at the Firebolt.

Tell him, her mind screamed but something was holding her back. It was not the squeezy feeling she'd gotten when she'd seen the broom. It was different than that. it was a moment from weeks before at the forefront of her mind that halted her. She'd repeated the moment between Snape and Dumbledore over and over until the words became mush. Lupin was the obvious answer, as to who Snape thought should not be at Hogwarts. Why? Well, he was the most recent addition to Hogwarts and the only man with a history with the wizard. According to Harry, there was animosity between the two men, lingering from their past. The werewolf said nothing of it, but Harry picked up on the underlying dislike all the same. Hermione had as well.

The why, was the real question. The strongest of the reasons she'd created, was his lycanthropy. Snape had already revealed his opinions on Werewolves that faithful day. Without subtly, she added. His lesson repeated on her with words like feral, inhuman, and monsters. He spent his time beating the word beasts into the spongy brains of her classmates. Chilling words to endorse his poison. An ideology of hatred born from a fear of the unknown, from those without spines or a modicum of compassion.

Snape spoke of an 'allegiance' Professor Lupin had, that somehow incriminated him. This was the point where the small connections she'd constructed started to snap. This was the part she could not figure out. Easy to assume it was Sirius Black, but that made no sense. Professor Lupin has warned Harry again, and again to be careful. Why would he do that, if he was in allegiance with the man who was trying to kill him? A predator does not warn his food when his jaw is wet.

Even with the holes, she'd not trusted herself enough to tell him about the suspicious broom. She'd considered maybe he'd been the anonymous sender, but that too fell apart. The poor quality of his clothing and his admitted inability to afford the wolfsbane potion had broken the theory. There was no way he'd be able to afford such a costly broom if Ron was to be trusted on its expense. His devotion to quidditch made him an expert, and she always trusted the experts.

"Is something the matter, Hermione?" He asked with narrowed eyes, as her continued silence and concealing of the broom had clearly raised suspicions. Hermione looked behind her, hoping her head start would be enough to make it to the Headmistress before the boys. She looked back to the concerned man before her.

"Nothing at all, I'm just in a rush," she said, her voice remained steady. She'd no choice but to lie. She trusted him in most ways, and far more than most professors. Though she trusted far less where Harry was concerned. Although she did appreciate the mentoring he'd given him, but he'd have to do more to earn that kind of trust. His head never moved from its tilted position looking at the girl still in her nightclothes, holding a very expensive broom away from his gold-lined eyes. You didn't need heightened senses to find her behaviour suspect.

"If you need help, you know you can ask me, right Hermione?" he said, his hand reaching his heart in promise. Hermione seemed to be breaking everyone's hearts today. All in the name of one boy's safety, who was sure to shun her after this.

"I know," she lied. His head righted itself, but his slight frown told her he was disappointed. She could feel it and it was stinging her insides.

"Well then. Merry Christmas, Miss Granger," he said quietly, as he righted his defeated shoulders. Hermione forced herself to remain straight, fearing she'd cave if she stopped gritting her teeth.

"Merry Christmas, Professor," she replied with a cheated smile. He nodded his head, never smiling back. It would have been forced anyway. She watched him turn the corner, forcing the sadness away, she returned to her sprint. Ending in the hallway of the first-floor corridor, she saw her goal point and felt the rush of air leave her as her friends were nowhere to be found. She raised her hand to knock but the door was already opening. Peering into the office it was tastefully decorated, a few nods to her animagus form and one of the largest fireplaces she'd seen in Hogwarts yet. The one thing it was lacking was her professor.

"Professor?" she called, never breaching the threshold without permission, she leaned her head through the door to look for her. The tabby cat emerged from behind her desk, transforming into the billowy robed woman she was looking for. The professor eyes locked with the broom.

"My goodness! is that a Firebolt?" She asked breathily, similarly to how Ron had reacted. She hoped unlike Ron, she'd see the problem right away. Hermione stayed behind the door, as she'd yet to get her permission to enter. She glanced to the hall a final time, praying it was empty of cupped ears, eager to hear the latest threat to the boy who lived.

"It is. Harry got it this morning, but there was no name on the card. I think it might be from Sirius Black," she said, and McGonagall's thin eyebrows flew up to her forehead. Hermione felt assured by the reaction. She'd done the right thing. It had to be done. She'd debated telling her of the map but if she had, all hell would break loose. As loathe as she was to admit, the map had yet to endanger them in the way this broom could. All the same, she didn't trust the map.

"Yes, you're right to be worried. Miss, Granger put the broom on the table and back away, it could be laced with dark magic," Hermione could curse herself for not thinking of it, touching it with her bare hands had been senseless. Following the orders, she did what she'd been told, and the door slowly closed with no assistance. McGonagall moved closer to the small coffee table before the hearth but still stood far enough away if the broom retaliated that she'd be hopefully alright.

" _Deprehendere_ " she whispered, while brandishing her wand and flicking her wrist in a snappy figure of eight. It was a spell she'd never heard of; the purpose was presumably to expose any dark curses on the broom. She practised the wand movement in her free hand out of view and internally chanted the spell. A habit she always did when she heard any useful spell. The usefulness of the spell was debatable, as the broom stayed in place with no effect. Hermione did not doubt her professor's power, but the spell was not working. McGonagall repeated the movement, after humming aloud but again, nothing happened. No light, no sound and no movement happened. With a quelling sigh, she faced Hermione with a stiff lip.

"I'll not pretend to be an expert on curse-breaking but I cannot detect any dark magic. th…" she paused as Hermione's head fell without her permission. She'd possibly destroyed her friendship for nought. "…is everything alright, Miss Granger?"

"Yes… well, it's just Harry didn't want me to do this. I stole the broom and if I'm wrong…well, I'm very wrong," she said. Harry had just managed to get the animagus to call off the watchdogs she'd ordered to follow him after he'd fallen from his broom. She was sure to loosen their chains once again, just another thing to blame her for. Her teacher looked at her with a sympathetic smile.

"You were very right, no matter the outcome," she said slowly, but Hermione turned her head away as if to say that was debatable. "What I was _going_ to say was I'd like to have someone with more experience with dark magic to have a look at it," her soothing Scottish tongue did little to comfort her. McGonagall seemed to see this as she refused to meet her eyes. "Did you know Miss Granger, that you were the first and _only_ muggleborn witch I visited?" Hermione's attention was caught. "Yes, I imagine you'll be a tough act to follow. Your loyalty to your friends is commendable, even if they don't see it as such. Sometimes it's our very selves from whom we need saving."

Hermione nodded her head, allowing the comforting advice into her heart. She'd been right and that was all that mattered. Hopefully, they'd see it her way one day, but that horizon was yet to be seen. Perhaps she was putting too little faith in her friends. In a way, they'd shown little faith in her, too.

"Yes, the best route should be to have someone look at it for anything that could not be detected by typical means. I'll have Lupin take a look, he'd done a stint in Borges and Burkes before Hogwarts, which no doubt will be invaluable here—" she said, Hermione was relieved McGonagall had turned away to her desk and couldn't see her burning cheeks. "—I'm glad you brought this to me. Don't hesitate to come if anything else occurs."

"Yes, professor."

"Well off with you. Breakfast is still being served, I'm assured by Hagrid it was one of the best years yet. Might I suggest changing to a more _suitable_ outfit?" She gazed down at the hopping bunny on her shirt, Hermione fought the urge to shield herself as though naked. With a nod of her head, she left the office quickly, not wanting anyone to see her in this state.

As she walked down the halls slowly, in no rush to return to her common room, she looked through the large windows to the snow storming the outdoors. The earlier theory of how impossible it was to feel down in Hogwarts at Christmas, was proven to be a falsehood

* * *

Hermione was alone once again. If she'd not appreciated their friendship before, which she had, she definitely does now. She remembers returning to the common room, and apologising to Harry a thousand times but his cold eyes spoke volumes she didn't want to hear. It was weeks on, and the boys were merciless. Harry hadn't looked at her since and Ron always sniffed when she was nearby. As if he couldn't stand the deathly betrayal she emanated. There was Oliver Wood, too. If he'd thought she'd been out to sabotage his team before, he was sure of it now. She'd catch him glaring at her the odd time as if she'd hidden the Quidditch Cup in her back pocket. The workload was filling her alone time, well enough. Sometimes she'd forget she was the most hated girl in Gryffindor as she lost herself in essay upon essay. It was mealtimes shared with vacant chairs that brought it all back, no book able to fill them.

"Hermione?" Hermione looked up into the pale azure eyes of Luna Lovegood. It had felt strange for someone to call her name, who wasn't a professor or Fred Weasley. How she wished he'd ignore her.

"Hi Luna," she said with a small smile, she'd seen hide nor tail of the witch since the moonlit meeting of minds. She'd looked for her too, the silent promise to befriend her was hard to keep when she was nowhere to be found.

"I finally got all those archives. It took a little while as my owl, Sunday, enjoys little breaks. It's a long flight from home, though so I'm kind to her. Shall we have a look after lunch?" Hermione doubted there wad an animal she's ever been unkind to. She'd completely forgotten her research, shameful as it is. Even dropping Divination had given her barely any breathing room. She'd asked McGonagall if she could take the O.W.L and forego that wench's classroom, but that wasn't a possibility. She'd had a brief debate on whether to return but there was simply nothing she could learn from Trelawney. What was the point, if not to learn?

"Oh, Luna, that's brilliant! I truly can't thank you enough," Luna simply smiled and waved her hand. "Ehm, I've been a little swamped, lately. I don't know if I can do it today, another time maybe?" She could use her time-turner but that wouldn't be for the purpose she'd gotten it. It would be wrong to misuse it so, even if her research was important.

"Not to worry, I can see you've got a few clockey imps on your tail. Just let me know and I'll be ready," she gave Hermione a lingering smile before turning away. Hermione felt awful, but she really was out of time for today. Clockey demons or not, she was probably hurt by her.

"Who's this, then?" Fred's voice popped up from beside Luna, giving the younger witch a cheeky grin. It seemed as though every time she complained about her loneliness, Fred appeared to remind why it was not always a bad thing.

"I'm Luna," she said, through her wispy voice. She held her hand out in greeting but Fred ignored it, opting to sling an arm around her shoulder. Luna's eyes widened before she blinked, seemingly uncomfortable by the contact. Call her selfish, venal or unsympathetic but Hermione couldn't feel bad when his attention fell to someone who wasn't her. If he began giving her his love declarations instead, well, she'd happily fade into the background. Hermione returned to her book, pretending to have seen nothing.

"No hand-shaking, that's far too like Percy—" the nearby Weasley nearby sniffed primly. "—We still love you, Percy, even if you're forty years old with a large loan on a small cottage. No little Luns, any friend of Hermione is a friend of ours. Have a seat Luns," he gestured to the vacant seats in front of her. Luna sat unsurely, she looked to Hermione for an explanation but Hermione would never be able to explain Fred so just shrugged. Before Fred could sit Hermione stretched across awkwardly placing her foot on the seat.

"No."

"How am I supposed to sit then? I don't imagine your little foot would be all too comfortable, bit too pokey for me. Not where you'd want to be poked either," She narrowed her eyes, as he'd understood what she meant perfectly. He could sit on the highest gargoyle of the highest tower, for all she cared, as long as it was thirty feet from her.

"Get poked somewhere else, Frederick. You gave you're little speech this morning, leave or I'll hex you," she'd been watching Ginny and her bat-boogey, she'd something in store for him if he kept going. Fred pushed her foot away, the odd angle she'd contorted to place it there made it easy to budge for the strong beater. Hermione jilted slightly, trying to push her foot back but the infuriating boy was already sitting. She blames quidditch.

"I love it when you use my full name," he winked at the huffing witch,

"Go away Mr Weasley," she hissed.

"Now that's just indecent. We're in public, love," he clucked at her in admonishment. Hermione had quite enough, he'd pushed a step too far. Her jaw was on the verge of snapping itself.

" _Ab_ —"

"— Freddie, Are you around geese a lot?" Luna interrupts sweetly, Hermione and Fred's noses both wrinkle. Luna subtly looks to Hermione, before Fred turns to address the Ravenclaw.

"Geese? Your ears are positively teeming with nectar. It's practically pouring out!" Fred's lips popped open but no sound is heard. Hermione fought her smile behind her hand, anger leaving in favour of amusement. "You should go clean it before the geese see. Nibbly little peckers."

Fred's face is one of confusion, as he stares at Luna in perplexity. He returns to Hermione with a raised brow. Hermione schooled her features to hide her smile, nodding emphatically, agreeing with every mad word Luna said. Fred hummed to himself, if one of the smartest girls in school had said so, it had to be true.

"Right, I'll go do that then…" he got up from his seat slowly, and it was so very hard to keep her face straight. To break character would ruin this golden opportunity Luna had given her. "Oi, Ange, come check my ear!" He shouts to the girl across the room. Hermione looks to Luna, but she's aced her poker face. "Just do it, I can't see the nectar... Merlin, Ange, I know it's there!" Fred's shout can be heard from the hall as shoves his head in front of the witch as she eats. That was the straw that had broken the camels back, the giggle erupted from her like a failed bubbling potion. Luna dropped the character, joining her laughter with her own though with less exuberance. They received a few stares from the people close to them, curious as to what was so funny.

"That was bloody brilliant, Luna," she wheezed through her laughter, wiping the gathering tears. Luna had faded from her laughter, she produced a vacant smile that was anything but.

"What was brilliant?" Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. Luna had to be joking. Watching the smirking witch, it was clear she was. As Hermione's chuckles died, Luna stood from her seat.

"Just let me know when you want the archives. See you around," Hermione's smile dropped a little. That had been the most fun she'd had in weeks, she was sad it would be ending so shortly. As Luna waved her final goodbye, Hermione stopped her.

"Luna," she called a beat too quickly. The witch turned back with a cocked brow. "I have time now if you want to stay for lunch," the witch looked confused. Hermione hadn't meant for research, if she went to the library again, her brain may combust. "—No, not for that. I-I have my book so we can read if you like. Chat, maybe? Whichever, I'm easy-going," she said lamely, her cheeks aflame with the last word.

It was no wonder why she'd only ever had two friends. It was not for a lack of trying to be fair, it was merely an absence of finesse. In fact, she sounded like those ridiculous books on socialising her grandmother got her. Books that must have been written by hermits as nobody speaks this way about themselves. As if reading from a skill section on a CV could get you, friends. Who wouldn't want to have an _easy-going_ friend, who called themselves easy-going? She was an utter dolt. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but Luna gave her a rare real smile, once again.

"Sounds wonderful.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, 
> 
> I rambled enough yesterday so I'll keep it short. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, Hermione is currently sad Hermione. When I read the books at like eight, I agreed with the boys on the firebolt. I don't know I imagined being sent a car, but my sister complaining about it. Age changed me for the better I think. Currently writing chapters involving the dreaded time headache, what a fucking bitch that is. Plug one hole for another leak to spring, I'll need my own visit to St. Mungo's soon. We're well over the halfway point for Prisoner of Azkaban, so there's some good news. Lol remember when I said I'd keep this short? 
> 
> I'll let you's go. Read/rate/review/kudos/follow/fave or whatever applies to whether you're reading from A03 or FFN.net. I'm too lazy from editing to separate them. Basically, tell me what you liked/hated.
> 
> Until next time


	11. The Hidden Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets terrible news, a new den and a red-haired problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the update!

She sat on the sludgy grass on the edge of the Black Lake, as good a place as any to reflect on what she'd learned. She'd taken Luna's offer to help her sift through the archives, rather than shouldering the burden alone. There wasn't much room left on her thin frame, as stretched as she was. Of course, Luna had been distracted more than once by her father's eccentric writings from the past, particularly taken by an article about the Wizengamot being corrupted by an undercover Gringotts Goblin. Their agenda was unknown to Hemione as she was too busy to read such tripe. Luna, on the other hand, was understandably less concerned about the ominous Sirius Black as Hermione was.

Luna would steal glances at Hermione as she'd take her sly breaks to read the article, hoping she'd not be caught by the diligent witch. She'd even gone as far as to read the article upside down to mask her skiving off. Unknown to Luna, she had been caught by her many times despite the Ravenclaw's clever antics. In any case, Hermione could hardly blame her. It was exceedingly mind-numbing to read through the night-time escapades of Sirius Black on the gossip pages, if it wasn't so important, she'd have thrown caution to the wind and closed the gossip pages for good as Luna had. Albeit, she'd do so with better reading material.

It was never anything of substance either, just who the handsome murderer was spotted dining with on what afternoon. Well, the articles always included the blood status of each witch and they were never clean. It was a good cover all the same, who'd ever suspect a friend of the light and a wooer of half-bloods? Hermione had found this interesting for the first six articles, then it just became drivel once again.

She'd found one article that she'd stolen while Luna was not-so-subtly skiving off her work. It was the grand edition of the Potter heir's wedding, full of pictures of Harry's parents laughing and sharing loving smiles.

Harry's mother was the epitome of beauty and grace, the standout of every picture her sunset glory featured in. As she looked at the image of her crinkling evergreen eyes as James Potter whispered secrets in her ear, she could tell they shared the warmth of Harry's eyes. Harry's eyes were as everyone had said, they did not belong to him, the wide-green eyes belonged to the girl called Lily Potter.

In the moments Harry truly shed the gloom of his haunted past, she'd be exposed to the Boy That Could Have Been. He'd smile, and the emerald orbs showed an innocence he himself had never known. That innocence belonged to her, too, she thought as she flipped through the article. She wished they'd all been a little less innocent to the danger wearing freshly pressed robes and a red rose on his lapel, to their left.

She'd give the article to Harry when he wasn't being such a git. If he never stopped, she'd pass the article to Neville, who could get a look at a picture of his parents dancing the night away together, and simply hope he'd share the article with the Boy Who Lived. There was one picture she'd be cutting out before Harry got the article though, remembering how volatile Harry had been when he'd learned of the true relationship of the Azkaban escapee and his deceased parents. The full-page spread of the wedding party showed Sirius Black howling with an arm slung around a clapping blonde in a light lilac gown, as the Potter heir tipped his bride down for a cinematic kiss.

He was the godfather of Harry Potter. The best friend of James Potter, Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin. The best man at the Potter wedding, less than two years before he got them killed, for a reason she knew not. He was the worst man of all.

She'd taken a second article too; except she'd gotten permission from Luna to keep this one. The most curious article of all. Everything she'd been doing, was in the search of this singular article. The trial was sure to be the most scandalous affair to rock the wizarding world in recent history. She expected weeks of coverage, accounts from any who'd been affected by the man, statements from witnesses and the final verdict granting him a new home for his penance. A home he'd escape from not too far into his sentence of a lifetime. What she got was even more shocking. The betrayal had been compacted to a short footnote, at the end of an article declaring Voldemort officially dead and Harry Potter the final champion.

" _This can't be right," she said, panic present in her voice as she flipped through the final pages of the story for something she'd surely missed. Luna, who was sitting across from Hermione in the mostly abandoned library, looked up from her article to the stuttering witch with a concerned frown._

_"What's not right?" Luna asked, her voice louder than allowed, as she attempted to be heard over the loudly scuffling pages. She glanced to her left, as she hoped Madam Pinch was far away from the mayhem Hermione had caused._

_Hermione stopped abruptly as the last sheet fell, she lifted her golden feline-eyes to Luna, her mouth open and jaw limp. Luna's tipped head reminded her of the question she'd been asked, and the answer was short. Everything was wrong._

_"Listen to this," Hermione lifted the discarded issue from the table, Luna drifted closer to hear as Hermione cleared her throat. “Sirius Black, 22, according to a source who'd been overheard by many at Hogshead Inn, had been there the night the Potters had been killed. He'd left the crime scene to go to another of his own making, killing long-time friend Peter Pettigrew, leaving only a severed finger behind, and thirteen muggles dead. Muggle authorities believe the attack to be one devised by the dissident republican group, the I.R.A.”_

_"Sirius was found alone amongst the rubble, laughing manically and quoted as saying 'The rat bastard' repeatedly, before being led away by the Aurors. Sirius has been sentenced to life in Azkaban for the murder of Peter Pettigrew, the thirteen muggles and for revealing the whereabouts of the Potters to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named." Hermione looked expectantly at Luna, as she awaited the same outrage she felt, but Luna simply swayed her head to her readings. Could she not see the glaring issue within the lines of the story?_

_"What's the problem?" The wispy witch asked, as she tucked her bright blonde hair behind her ear. Hermione scoffed, throwing the offending newspaper, if you could even call it that, down on the table._

_"The trial, Luna. There's nothing on it! I've checked every issue and there is nothing on the trial. Why would your father ignore one of the most important trials of this century? It's pure madness!" Hermione threw her hands up, while Luna knitted hers tightly in her lap._

_"If it's not there, maybe there was none," Luna said, in a rather hard manner. Hermione wrinkled her nose, what a ridiculous notion. You know what they say of apples and trees._

_"How could there be no trial? He was sent to Azkaban, for Merlin's sake!" Hermione shout-whispered to Luna, but Luna just glared at her, for a reason unknown to Hermione._

_"If there was a trial, my father would have covered it. So, there obviously wasn't one. This is his job, Hermione. Do you think he'd deprive all his readers?" Luna narrowed her eyes, and it struck Hermione suddenly. She leaned back in her chair, dismantling the offence position she'd taken._

_"I'm sorry, Luna. I didn't mean it to sound like I was attacking your father. I just don't understand, how could he be sent to prison without trial? It just can't be," she tried to comfort her with a smile, but the witch continued her glaring, though the fire was dwindling in her azure eyes._

_"Well, it has to be. I can guarantee you won't find anything on his trial in any papers. They were sentencing so many people, maybe they just didn't have the time? Why the interest in Sirius Black, anyway?" Hermione chewed her lip, as she digested what she'd been told and debated whether to tell her the true reason. Maybe if she knew, she'd see how deadly the situation was. Maybe she'd see the dangerous position she was in by being friends with Hermione and her links to the famous Harry Potter._

_"Look, I can't say exactly why. I want to, I really do – but it's not for me to tell you," as Luna nodded her head slowly in acceptance, Hermione blew the breath she'd been holding. She'd not destroyed this young friendship, yet. "Still, I think something funny is going on and this doesn't help. We're not being told the whole story."_

_At this, Luna agreed whole-heartedly, she held up her still upside-down article on the espionage by the hidden Goblins with a sceptical look, as if it was proof they were being lied to. Hermione smiled at Luna with a fond eye-roll. Apples and trees._

Luna left the library shortly after, and Hermione followed suit a little while later. She didn't have anywhere particular to go, as it was a Saturday and she'd work tirelessly during the week to clear her day, anticipating spending the whole day searching through the archives. Fool was she.

That was how she'd found herself alone at the Black Lake in the early afternoon, as she basked in the small ray of spring sunshine after some aimless wandering of the grounds. Even with Luna spending more time with her, she was alone. Luna was a Ravenclaw and could hardly every moment with her.

She'd hadn't planned to go to the lake. She had ventured outside, to share a surprise spot of tea with Hagrid. She'd knocked on the hut but there was no answer. Alas, like Luna, he was elsewhere. She walked and walked until she'd given up and plopped miserably to the marshy ground by Black Lake.

"Miss Granger, is it not too cold yet for sun-bathing?" She squinted up, identifying the husked voice as the one belonging to her Professor Lupin. Her cheeks flooded red and she quickly looked to the ground, she'd had trouble speaking with him since the Firebolt incident. The trouble was, she physically couldn't speak to him, her throat would shrivel as the red clouded her face when he came nearby.

Professor McGonagall had said she would involve him and when she did, he surely thought Hermione didn't trust him one bit. She had no reason to give if asked why that wasn’t horribly offensive. So, she kept silent in his lessons and he never prodded her for answers. She avoided his eye contact, and he never sought her out.

"I just needed air. The castle is rather suffocating," she replied in a small voice, fingers fondled the bladed grass under her hand.

"That it can be. I found myself in need of the same thing, sometimes fresh air is the best medicine of all," Hermione looked up at the man at the mention of medicine, her fiddling stopped as she took a moment to catalogue his appearance. His sandy-blonde hair was flat on his head, and the bags under his eyes were swollen and tainted blue. He was sure to be feeling the effect of the nearing full moon if her calendar was correct, and she had ensured it was. Her professor's yellow-gold eyes followed hers as they spread across his face, she expected to see the same disappointment as during their last meeting, but his expression was unreadable. Even knowing his deepest secret, she did not know him truly. "Harry not around?"

"No. He's not," she said in a firm voice, she curled her crossed legs closer to her body. She wasn't about to tattle to her teacher. Of course, she spoke a little to Hagrid, trusting the man to keep her secrets as he's done many times before. She imagined if she asked the man to say nothing he would, but she didn't want to darken his opinion of Harry because of her. Students like Wood tended to agree with Harry, but adults like Hagrid and Professor McGonagall did the same with Hermione. Lupin nodded to her words, his hands fidgeted in the pockets of his faded grey trousers.

"You know, teenage boys are often far behind teenage girls. We rarely think beyond quidditch and chocolate. I know I didn't," his lips curled up slightly, but Hermione didn't believe him one jot. He was a bloody secret werewolf at Hogwarts, surely he thought of more important things? No, he was just trying to comfort her as it needn’t take a mastermind to realise her friends had left her. Seamus Finnegan now sat in her old seat in every class before she could, and she took his previous seat beside Neville. Hermione resumed her fidgeting with the soggy grass beneath her palm, no particular interest in the direction of the conversation. "You know there's plenty of places in Hogwarts, where one can hide. Places that don't leave your bottom wet after sitting," he winked at Hermione.

"Most likely," she replied, as she gazed at the mist hovering above the black lake.

"Don't believe me? Here I thought professors were always right," Hermione watched the towering man, as his gold-ringed brown eyes shined in mirth. There were thousands of places in Hogwarts where one could hide, many she knew herself, the problem was they were in Hogwarts, and she wasn't sure she wanted to be here anymore. At least when she'd had no friends in muggle school, she'd go home to her grandmother. What did she have here? The occasional meeting with the elusive Luna Lovegood, or the odd tea with Hagrid and Fang? Her heart pleaded for home and her brain was not far behind in the pursuit.

Professor Lupin made no serious effort to leave. Merlin knows why, the conversation was anything _but_ riveting. Sighing loudly, her professor took his hands from inside his pockets and held one out for her. Hermione's nose wrinkled, but the werewolf's eyes were severe. She gingerly placed her small hand in his and allowed him to pull her up. As the cold air hit her skirt, she realised how truly wet the grass was. It hadn't been her brightest idea to sit on the grass without testing it, but once she'd sat down, she committed to it.

Professor Lupin began walking away, he stuffed his hands into his large pockets and whistled into the open air. Hermione's pert nose scrunched, what a strange way to end the conversation. Ruth Granger would even call it incredibly rude. He stopped a few paces away and cut his whistle short, having noticed she'd kept behind, as he'd never indicated she should follow him. He raised his lofty eyebrow to her, which spurred her feet onwards.

He resumed his whistling and walking once she'd caught up to him. She followed as he whistled an unfamiliar jaunty tune while she worried her lip between her over-sized teeth. She was itching to ask him what they were doing as she'd never taken a stroll with a professor before – Hagrid didn't count, that was vastly different. They were veering further from the Hogwarts castle, which meant he wasn't escorting her back, but where were they were headed was yet to be determined. If she caught sight of the forbidden forest, professor or not, she'd leave him there. She had no desire to be chased by wild animals, today.

As they emerged from the top of the hill, she glanced at her professor, but he kept whistling as the Whomping Willow sneaked closer. She stopped short of the tree's wide-reaching branches, as the tree twisted and swayed to the tune of his whistle as if entranced by the wolf. Professor Lupin kept walking towards the tree, did he not _recognise_ the aggressive tree? Should she say something? Would he think her a know-it-all?

Just as she was about to pull him back, he stopped, a small smirk on his lips to her before he strolled even _closer_ to the tree. Had the man got a death wish? She wanted to scream at him but then the tree would surely awaken. He pulled his wand as he reached the carved trunk of the violent tree, his back turned from the panicked witch. Were all wizards so foolhardy? It seems all the ones she knew were, always landing trouble at the foot of her stoop. She braced on her back-foot, ready to spring forward and push the man away before his suicidal wish was fulfilled.

As her heartbeat temped up and left knee lifted, Professor Lupin turned back to wink one final wink, before he tapped his wand against the base of the tree. A strange thing happened, then. The tree stood still as if the magic had leeched from its deep roots below her. Hermione stepped back staring at the magic tree, as her jaw swung from its hinge.

"Apologies, Miss Granger. I could've told you but sometimes we all need a good scare. It's good for the heart," he said, as he lightly tapped his chest with a hidden grin. Her head whipped between the speaking man and the sentient tree, she expected his voice to anger the slumbering tree and submit them to an ever-lasting silence.

As the tree kept still, she sought him out wondering how he'd done it – it wasn't possible. Was it? The chocolate of his eyes outshined the lupine gold for once, as they twinkled with amusement. She narrowed her eyes at him forgetting his authority over her as her professor, her sparked anger couldn't recognise him as by his title at that moment. She could only see the man who had intentionally led her to believe he was in trouble for his amusement. As her eyes darkened, his smile grew larger into a full-blown grin.

"Come along Miss Granger. Personally—" he feigned a thoughtful look. "—Well I wouldn't want to be here when it wakes up. Nasty right hook," He laughed as her eyes widened, before he took a large step into – _into the_ _tree_? What on earth.

She crept closer, her eyes continually flicked up to ensure the tree remained asleep. As she reached the base of the tree, she spotted an open doorway. She gasped in awe. It must have appeared as the tree twisted straight, revealing the hollow within, her mind reasoned. Sometimes magic never stopped being truly magical for Hermione.

She stepped forward without thought, too awed by the dark hidden alcove within and what mystery lived there. Inside the tree, revealed a long, rickety staircase with large gaps between the steps and several caved stairs. Her mouth twisted as her brain struggled to adjust to the seemingly improbable architecture within the tree trunk. Every so often, there was only one conclusion to an oft-asked question, and it was always an unsatisfying answer for her– magic.

As she reached the staircase, low light flooded through the boarded windows into the narrow hallow. At the end of the hallway stood her professor as he gazed through the cracks of a boarded window.

"This is my place to hide..." he turned to her, back obscuring the little dregs of light. "…I come here during the full moons; I trust you to never come here without my express permission or tell any of the others about this place." She listened to him, subconsciously nodding along as she wandered down the narrow corridor at a snail's pace. She peeped into the doors lining the pathway to her professor. There were several rooms and each room shared a commonality in their run-down nature and broken furniture spread about as if thrown by a large force. Why was she here? The thought must have fallen from her lips as her professor answered.

"Why? Well, I'd say so you could brag about defeating the Whomping Willow to your classmates but we both know that can't be – not just because it was I who defeated the tree," he laughed as she glared at him for a moment before he heaved a winded sigh. "I hadn't intended to show you this place. Not many have been here, in truth, and not for a long while," his fingers fidgeted inside his large seamless pockets.

"There was something I thought I'd show you, though. Maybe even get a little smile for my trouble," She reached her professor who was standing between two closed doors, the only closed doors she'd seen so far.

One door was different, the wood was a new black and liquidly smooth, with no chips and edged in silver. Her professor seemed uncomfortable as she investigated the door, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She moved from the door her professor cringed from, and eyes the remaining closed door. The second door was unassuming, the dull wood was chipped and peeling, in the same state of decay as the others.

"I hated – _hate_ , this place. I had the worst and best memories here. As confusing as that is…" he pauses, as he brushed hair the fallen hair from his face. "…This room in particular—" he wrapped his knuckles against the splintering wood, he winced a little as he pulled his hand away. "— this was a neutral place for me. Neither good nor bad. Somewhere to go when I needed to be away from Hogwarts if the scents and sounds got too much for Moony. I've made it sound just brilliant, haven't I?" He drawled sarcastically, but chucked as she nodded her head eagerly, anyway. "Well calm down, it's not that great so lower your expectations greatly."

Despite his advice, she was somewhat excited to see the room. To some, the place was a mite-infested hovel, fit to be torn down as its safety was dubious at best. To her, it was somewhere to escape Hogwarts entirely, even if she was still technically on the grounds.

"May I?" she asked, as her hand reached for the rusted doorknob. Her professor backed away from the door and gestured for her to proceed with an open palm. Hermione had no idea what to expect, but the room suited the man very well. It was very small and padded with mostly empty bookshelves, two or three half-filled shelves spread throughout. There was a dusty wing-backed cream chair, that could use a _scourgify_ or two, on top laid a quilted pillow with fringed corners and an over-sized tan knit-blanket. The room was void of any furniture, but there was a charming fireplace on the only bare wall, with a single framed photo on top.

Hermione's feet had already brought her to the near-empty shelves, reading every title with a predatory smile, ready to devour the words within. Most of the books were dark arts texts, some she'd read and others she'd yet to hear of. There was a book on House-elves and magical bonds, and a book of complicated runes that had Hermione salivating. She didn't ask permission, simply lifted the book and began reading the text. Before she finished the table of contents, already invested and ready to get into the grit of the text, her professor coughed behind her.

"Oh, sorry. I wasn't thinking," she apologised, a light flush tinted the apples of her face as she placed the book where she'd stolen it from. He was sure to regret giving her access to the library as she couldn't seem to stop herself from invading his privacy.

"Nonsense, I've read them dozens of times, you're free to read them, Hermione," he smiled to her, and she gave him a real beaming smile in return, a smile that showed every giant tooth proudly. He walked unsurely into the room as if he needed her permission which was rather ridiculous as it was his private place. "I suppose it's rather contradictory to tell you that you can't come here without my permission, but then tell you to come here whenever you need to. It's for your own safety."

"I understand," he pursed his lips, and his mouth opened as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Hermione wouldn't push him, she was sure she probably wouldn't like what he'd had to say so she endured. "How did you do that to the tree? I'd never read about it," not even in _Hogwarts: A History_. She didn't think there were many things about Hogwarts not contained within pages of the tome. Professor Lupin smiled at the inquisitive witch.

"I shouldn't think it would be, that'd be the worst way to keep a secret I should think," she laughed withher professor, something that should feel strange with a man she'd known less than a year. If anything was strange, it was how natural it felt, the man seemed to emit this calm energy. She snorted, as her inner mind had unintentionally quoted Trelawney. "Dumbledore added the Willow knot to the tree sometime before I came, you tap the knot and it should fall right to sleep. The best advice I can give you is never come near the tree when it's aggravated. I learned that lesson the hard way," he tapped the white scar above his eyebrow, she gasped in realisation.

"I thought that was from transforming," she said, then her eyebrows pinched painfully. "Then what was all the whistling about?" She thought he was calming the tree, but clearly not if he'd been attacked by the tree before. Her professor chuckled lightly in response.

"No, I thought it would be funny if you thought I had a magic whistle. Bad joke, but you looked at me as if I was the second coming of Merlin…" he laughed again as her face bloomed red. "…Second thought, it was a rather good joke." She ignored him, not much enjoying being the centre of ridicule when she couldn't rightly hex her professor for his troubles. She picked up the book on House-elves, as it seemed the most of place in the small collection. Opening the book, she realised it was no ordinary book, as it was carved in the centre and three Honeyduke's chocolates of varied flavours were hidden within, covered in a retro bubble-pink wrapper. Her professors looked at the laughing witch quizzically, and she held up the proof which caused a deep red to peek from behind his collar.

"It's always been the favourite, then? Chocolate Frogs never stood a chance," she teased, she repressed the voice that scolded her for her impropriety. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Professor McGonagall. Her professor moved closer snatching a bar with a marked agility, from within the book cavity.

"Brightest witch of her age," he said, tapping her on the nose with the bar, before peeling the aged wrapper away and biting into the bar. The bar was free of the signs of age and the white coating of expired chocolate, she was extremely impressed with the teenaged Lupin's magic capabilities. That was an enduring _stasis_ charm, she doubted hers could maintain for that long. He looked thoughtfully at the bookshelves, his eyes lingered on each book as he ambled down memory lane.

"It's been a while since I've been in here, myself. I haven't needed it with the potion masking all the smelly teenagers and all that _ghastly_ perfume," his face wrinkled in disgust. "I suppose, I feel better knowing it's going to someone who needs it. Though, I'd rather she didn't need it at all," the face from earlier returned, pursed lips holding in questions he wanted to ask but didn't know how to. Hermione knew where this was going, again, she'd not push him into talking either. "Hermione, you know if you need help or even to talk, I'll help however I can."

He'd said similar words before, with just as much heart too. She'd knowingly scorned him then, could she do it again? Even after he'd given her his hideout, could she lie to him, again? Or would she take it as a second chance – a do-over of sorts? She breathed deeply, and turned back to the bookcase and away from the sad brown eyes that beared down on her.

"Unless you can force teenagers to grow up, I don't think there is much you can do," she said flatly.

"So, Harry is still ignoring you?" he tutted, as she whipped her head around to face him. How had Professor Lupin known? She opened her mouth to ask but he continued speaking. "Foolish boy. He's too easily led, that broom could've killed him if he got on it. I know he knows it, too." Hermione gulped.

"So, it was cursed, then?" She asked slowly, but the professor's demeanour changed suddenly, as he huffed and began pacing.

"If it's cursed, it's bloody hard to catch. Though if I know him at all, he'll use one he knows I won't think of. Which is the crux of the problem, the mangy mutt," Hermione tilted her head, rarely did you hear someone call Black a dog. It was rather tame for the man who murdered all of his friends. "I'll figure it out. If I've to fly the bloody thing myself, I will," He growled in an animalistic manner, which startled Hermione. Professor Lupin staggered from his pacing, and stopped mid-stride.

"Sorry, got a bit carried away..." Hermione gave him a smile to reassure him, not wanting him to think her afraid of him as she once would've been. "...I'll find whatever he put on the broom or just blow it up. I'm open to either."

"Terrible as it is, I want it to be cursed," she didn't betray him for nothing, then. Her professor smiled at her kindly, enhancing the soft features of his face, as he lay a large and roughened hand on her shoulder gently.

"It'll all be alright soon, Hermione," he promised, his hand squeezed her shoulder. His words would follow her around for the rest of the day, and far into the night. Something small to repeat to herself, when it seemed as if it never would be.

* * *

Hermione hadn't been able to get to her new home away from home since she'd been given the keys from her professor, under the condition she stopped calling him professor outside of the classroom. He'd insisted he could hardly stand it in the classroom, made him feel like a fuddy-duddy. He’d also told her to start answering questions again, she was delaying his class having to explain everything himself. She’d been beet-red, but he seemed to find that even funnier.

She'd been given permission to add her own books, but that had felt like a breach in privacy, so she decided to bring any she needed instead. Today, she'd seize her opportunity. She'd checked her calendar for full moons and cleared it with her professor after class, with a thumbs up from both, she'd barely chewed her breakfast, ready to leave as the students took another trip to Hogsmeade. As she headed for the exit, her heavy bag slapping against her back, she was intercepted by a red-haired menace. Fred smiled nervously, which set off every alarm she had.

"Hey, want to go to Hogsmeade?" Hermione was taken aback, by the speed of his speech and the straight-forward nature of it. Normally It was a never-ending speech about how gorgeous his red hair and her golden eyes would look on a small human. That was if he didn't go a tangent about the true colour of her hair, or the 'sneaky' grey in her eye as he called it. He spoke of her as if debating the stripes of a zebra. Fred tapped his foot incessantly against the ground, as he chewed his lip. "Well?" he asked, exasperation lacing his tone as he looked past her to the Great Hall entrance uneasily. Something was definitely off.

"I'm thinking about it," she shrugged her shoulder, as she delayed the man who had somewhere to be, where to was the real worry.

"Really?" he said, his voice higher than a pre-pubescent boy.

"Obviously not," she rolled her eyes, she'd never understood the point of the game he started, only knowing she'd cross the finish line first. Fred didn’t seem to upset, his voice dropped to it’s original pitch as he spoke speedily.

"Right, yeah. Awful shame – yeah, good day and all that usual stuff about your hair. Bye, love," a gust of wind hit her face as Fred fled the hall, the smell of wood and apples was all that he'd left behind. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the empty entrance, as she followed the trace of the lingering scent. Frederick Weasley was up to something and she'd figure it out, with some time to spare for light-reading in-between hexes and curses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, 
> 
> So, we're still dealing with sad Hermione. As much as I want to push her away and just resolve their fight, it was a large part of her story during the Prisoner of Azkaban. It gives me an opportunity to explore other friendships, which is a plus. Be rather strange if her and Luna were suddenly best friends.
> 
> I won't say much, but it's important Hermione knows about the Whomping Willow before the climax, which thankfully isn't too far away. I'm already fleshing out the story arc for Order of the Phoenix. The Goblet of Fire, though a mega-large book, wasn't a big moment for Hermione, she wasn't as integral to the story as in PoA, so it won't be as long as this but it'll still be important. Yes, contradictions are my speciality. 
> 
> I love the Hermione/Remus friendship and anyone who doesn't can honest to god, fight me. I hope I did him justice and he's still in character. Wonder what Fred's up to? (I'm kidding, I know)
> 
> Ramble over, but hope you liked it! Review/Kudos, if you feel like it. It's a great motivator. 
> 
> Expect another update soon.
> 
> Until next time


	12. An Honest to Goodness Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred's got a problem, he's hiding from a certain house member. Come evening, he's not finished with confrontations or knocking sense into his family, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it, I really like it myself, but I'm incredibly biased.

Fredrick Gideon Weasley had a problem. A big one, that needed fixing immediately. See, he'd recently tried another iteration of his puking pastille. He'd taken incredible care with this batch; the counter cure was improving with each batch and the latest was the one. He could feel it in his bones.

The effects were taking hold faster and faster, once he figured the problem lay in the stirring pattern. He'd incorporated three new anti-clockwise turns before the addition of the rare doxy eggs, they were exceedingly less rare when stolen from a certain big-nosed member of staff.

This was a special batch for the Weasley twins, and one half was extremely eager to test it.

He'd taken her advice to heart, and he'd planned to limit his testing to willing participants or Slytherin purists in need of a palette cleanser. He'd had planned to ask a few if they were interested that morning, he'd even prepared a pitch for the unsure ones.

He awoke fresh-faced with a broad grin already present, and ready to test the yellow candies, he'd finally close the potions book on their first completed product. He'd gone straight to his trunk to collect the batch along with his shoes, but the problem was, the pastilles were no longer there.

Which was the worst news he could have gotten, as this meant George had taken them and George could give a damn about what a certain third-year thought.

George had not taken her advice to heart, if he had, it was not as fiercely as Fred had. He knew George would have no qualms testing the product on some first years, George didn't have to deal with the fallout the last time. He wasn't the one who'd been chased around the Quidditch Pitch by cursed bludgers, so he'd yet to experience what an enraged Granger could do with her wicked wand.

Fred was not afraid of Hermione per se, though experience told him she was not to be trifled with. No, he was afraid of what she would think of him. She'd think him unworthy and all his efforts so far with her would be for nought.

Truth be told, he'd had no idea if she was warming to him at all. Every day, he asked her to Hogsmeade and every morning she refused. He studied her face each time for any indication that she liked his declarations – a possible smirk, maybe a light blush or some fluttery lashes.

She'd barely move her bloody face, all he could ever see was the perpetual persistence in her forceful chin. One thing he was a bit to slow to learn was to only ask her once a day. If he asked her more than once, she'd throw a jelly-legs jinx, or something stronger if annoyed enough, then she'd tear away, forgetting the sad wobble-kneed man behind her.

He was trying, too. He'd set a few of his adoring fans on a quest for romantic poems to melt her heart, he'd sent red roses to her classroom (she'd set those on fire before they'd reached her desk, Lee refused to be a messenger ever again), and he'd even got a few of her classmates to schmooze him up to the witch when he was otherwise occupied. Parvati was more receptive than Lavender, he had no idea what her problem was, but when he asked her the little favour, she looked at Fred as if he'd asked her to Avada her grandmother.

One thing, he did know was this would cool her faster than you could say Wiggenweld, if she heard the faintest whisper that Fred had returned to the old ways.

So, he rushed down to the Great Hall to confront George before he could doom him to a lonesome life without her. He stood at the exit and scanned the long Gryffindor table, for a glimpse of his twin or Lee.

Then he saw her, as she gathered her belongings to leave, and it reminded him of his normal morning routine. Hopefully, he could delay her while he'd stuff the vomiting first-years behind some tapestries in the meantime. He rubbed his sweaty forehead on his sleeve before he plastered a shaky smile across his face.

"Hey, want to go to Hogsmeade?" He said quickly. Hermione's arched brow flew across her forehead, he couldn't say exactly what had shocked her, there was nothing unusual about it. The smart witch should have known as she saw him, what he was up to. She couldn't possibly know, could she?

He peaked to the entrance hall over her shoulder to see if any bludgers were waiting for him.

No, there was no sign of danger or spewing pre-teens. She narrowed her eyes, and he couldn't help but tap his foot. Why was she taking so long? Most days she said no before he opened his mouth. She was taking her sweet time, and he couldn't afford to let her stare at him any longer. "Well?"

"I'm thinking about it," Fred's eye's doubled. Now, this was new, and if he was honest, it couldn't have come on a worse day. He wasn't even wearing shoes!

"Really?" he said, his voice higher than any man his age. He sounded like the unsuspecting Percy when they put a few _friendly_ pins on his seat.

"Obviously not," she obnoxiously rolled her feline eyes, and he barely felt the disappointment. Her refusal was a bit of a relief, he'd never get another chance if she found out what was happening somewhere on Hogwarts grounds. She'd never believe he was an innocent. Well, this time, anyway.

"Right, yeah. Awful shame that – yeah. Good day, and all that usual stuff about your hair. Bye, love," she barely stepped out of his path, before Fred had fled the hall to stop his menace of a brother from ruining his future marriage.

Once he came to Hogwarts, Fred, George, and later Lee, had searched high and low for somewhere to brainstorm their pranks in peace. A den to hide from peeved professors or Filthy Filch and his odd companion, Mrs Norris.

Many detentions and several explosion later, they found a hidden room by complete accident. Lee had made a bad joke and George retaliated by pushing Lee, a tad too hard, into a large tapestry depicting an early Quidditch game. As he made contact with the tapestry, he was sucked inside.

They freaked out for a good few moments, as Molly would go berk if they'd lost a small wizard in their second-year. As they thought about how likely Lee's parents were to notice their child's disappearance, Lee popped through the wall with an excited grin before pulling the two awed twins through the tapestry by their arms.

The room hadn't even been marked on the map. It wasn't spectacular, there was no furniture or special features within. That was alright, they didn't need an extravagant layout, just a simple room with four walls and a cat-free zone.

That's where the boys would most likely be, and if not, well he'd put on his protective gear and wait for the fierce firecracker to come for him. He slowed down as he spotted the back of his handsome brother's head and emitted a trapped breath. Thanks be to Merlin.

Before he could relax he saw a small wizard tucked behind George's turned back, dressed in yellow robes and a nervous frown. He was looking up at George, who was holding his hand out in kind.

"Oi, lads," he shouted down the hall, as he fastened his pace. George turned around to face him, his forehead wrinkled as he stared at the frantic Fred near-running at him.

"Fred, normally I'd say you look good, but I'm not sure about your new style. Too free for me," George chuckled as his shoeless feet came into view.

Fred's lips were paper-thin as he glared down at the fresh batch of puking pastilles in George's hand.

"Mate?" Fred glared at George before turning to the twitchy first year beside his twin.

"You know what that little lemon sweet does?" The slight boy nodded in a confused manner. Fred delivered the boy a reassuring smile towards, before dropping his hand on the smaller boy's shoulder. "Well, what my brother failed to tell you, though I'm sure he was going to–" Fred threw a haughty scowl at George. "– Is that sweet is no ordinary sweet," the blue-eyed Hufflepuff looked up to him with a quizzical eye.

"If you eat it, you'll start vomiting everywhere, maybe even from your nose," the blue eyes grew twice as big when the word vomit was heard. "Now, we have a counter curse that _should_ stop the vomiting if you want to try it."

"No, I don't want it," the boy bobbed his head fiercely. He wouldn't want it either with that description. George was huffing like a dragon beside him, Fred knew he'd be getting an earful when the boy left without his sweet.

"It sounds terrible, but you're not seeing the beauty of it," Fred held the yellow candy between his fingers and towards the sun as if it were heaven's beacon. "Take one of these, and you can get out of Potions for the rest of the day. All you have to do is take one, vomit a little and take the green counter candy when you're sent out of class. Then, when you've time dossing through your work-free day, let us know how it worked out," the boy looked at the sweet uneasily, but there was curiosity there, too.

"How long will it take to stop?" His blue-eyes narrowed on George in suspicion. Fred couldn't blame him. George probably said it tasted like lemon and made you even more attractive than Gilderoy Lockhart. Fred had no intention of lying to the boy, any buffoonery from him would be sniffed out by the golden hell-bringer and her bopable nose.

"That's the thing pup – we don't rightly know. You'd be testing it for us; it shouldn't be long, the batch before took about two hours to stop and this one is far better quality. Your choice," he held the sweet out in cradle of his palm.

The boy levelled his scrutiny to Fred now, wondering if he should trust the other twin.

"Alright, I'll give it a go," he took the sweet from his hand hesitantly, then curled his lip at George and moving from the vacant hallway.

"What the bloody hell, Fred. You almost ruined it, we'd have been set back until lunch," George cried, while he threw his hands in the air.

Fred breath left in slow bursts, as he attempted to reign in his anger at George before he addressed him. He hated being angry at George, it felt unnatural, as if he was hurting himself in a way.

George had thrown his hands across his chest, and the brown-eyes flashed at Fred. What right did he have to be angry?

"Me? I bloody well saved it!" He waved his mighty finger in George's face. George gawked at the finger as if facing off against violent death eater. "What did you even say to him? he hadn't a fecking clue what it was."

"I told him what he wanted to hear to get what we wanted him to do – like normal," he snapped back. Fred gave himself a quick shake to clear his mind, swiping a hand across his clean jaw.

They were different people under the matching jumpers. Fred was always a little more ruthless in his pranks, willing to go to extremes when it was called for. George often stayed his hand when he jumped a bridge too far. It's probably why he was so offended by Fred, now.

"George, we talked about this... it's not right. They've no idea what they're taking, and we're not doing it that way anymore," he pleaded with George, but he wasn't backing down and pulled closer to Fred.

"No, you talked about it Fred," he shouted at Fred, mere measures from his nose as he boomed in his ears. "Besides, you're only saying that because of Hermione," George funnily sneered her name, that irked Fred a little.

Maybe what George was saying was right, maybe he was only here to save his neck. Did that make what George was doing right? Not in his mind.

"Maybe I am – but she's not bloody wrong. What are you even angry about? He took the sweet, and he knows what we want from him. It worked even better," George laughed, the laughter lacked the vibrant spark it normally had.

"He may have – but the others won't. Do you not see that?" he said, his tone dripped with condescension.

It was hard to control his anger, as it was for most Weasleys, but he had to. If he didn't, it would be worse than the Weasley War II, or WWII for short. He'd rather avoid another prank war, the summer of 1989 was a dark year at the burrow, Bill's right eyebrow never grew back right - forever crispy looking. Still, he tried to reason with George, even though it was failing him miserably.

"Did you ever think that one day we're supposed to _sell_ these things? If we can't get someone to take one for free, how would we get them to buy them?" He delicately propped his hand on George's shoulder, ignoring the muscles twitch in response.

"Haven't left me much choice, have you, Freddie?" He spoke through gritted teeth, as he shrugged off Fred's hand. It was clear George had zero interest in resolving the fight, his lifeblood too wild at that time.

Fred watched his best friend and brother storm away from him and out of sight. He doubted he'd up to any good for the rest of the day, he actually felt a bit sorry for any loitering snakes that crossed George's path. All the same, they probably did deserve it, payment for some guilty act they'd committed away from watchful eyes.

He knew George would calm down in time, and then they could move on like nothing happened. Fred would make a joke about Lee's ears, and George would take that as his opening and laugh. They didn't need to apologise to one another anymore, they grew out of that at four years old.

A cough from behind Fred caused him to turn around, he'd have thought it was Lee, despite its decidedly female nature. It wasn't Lee Jordan behind him.

He was truly surprised to find her outside their secret refuge. It seems he was so busy running, he never caught sight of the brown-haired straggler on his tail.

Fred's tawny eyes dimmed, as he realised what she'd heard. Was she going to hex him?He could never tell what was actionable in her eyes, her justice system was a bit wishy-washy for his taste.

She was chewing her bow lips slowly. Fred had inherited Molly Weasley's dislike of fidgeting, his hand twitched to swat her as Molly would to her brood. He was able to resist easily enough as he didn't fancy a visit to Madam Pomfrey.

"I saw what happened," Hermione said, her arms slowly laced across her chest. "I followed you - I mean, I shouldn't have, but your smile was weird…"

Fred braced himself, while he debated if he should even bother to defend himself. If she'd just jumped to her conclusions already, would it even help?

He'd gotten him to stop, hadn't he? Was that worth nothing to her? For Godric's sake, it wasn't even his idea!

"I don't know I'm sorry I guess," she'd spoken so quietly, he wasn't even sure he'd heard her. Fred creased his brow

"Why are you sorry?" He asked with a lifted tongue. She stared at him as if he were the dullest knife in the drawer. 

He had a bizarre urge to laugh, as he was truly the _worst_ at reading Hermione Granger. Her arms fell from her chest limply to her sides, as her head bent in question.

"For following you. It wasn't right," he gazed into her gilded eyes, as he attempted to read her. 

Yes, she shouldn't have followed him, but he couldn't believe she'd apologise to him. Crookshanks ate Scabbers and Ron would die if he kept waiting for his apology, which only meant this was some sort of honey-eyed trap.

"Okay…" he braced himself once more, but the bedazzling witch simply smiled – she _smiled_ at him...at Fred... _b_ _loody smiled_.

"Thanks. Oh, and thanks, for telling him about it before he took it, as I asked. " He should have said she didn't ask, more demanded with unimaginable aggression and promises of pain, but she was still smiling at him. Still smiling at Fred.

"When you're right, you're right," he said, giving her a cheeky wink in addition to his charming smile. He'd like to attribute her bruising smile to his dashing wink but he knew better, he knew it was from being told she was right. It was praise that caused the bright girl's smile to broaden.

He felt fizzy and weightless – as light and airy as a fresh-poured butterbeer. He knew the image of her glittery golden eyes, as the edges crinkled with her smile, would be the last image he'd think of tonight. A picture to guide his dreams to higher grounds. Then something occurred to him, as they at smiled at one another.

This was it. This was the moment. The moment to change the narrative and rewrite his story so far. If he handled this carefully, it could be the start he'd been searching for. He raised his hand and leaned against the wall of the corridor, aiming for an air of nonchalance, even though he was freaking out. There was a high probability that his organs were sweating along with him.

Be smooth, Freddie.

"So…" she looked uneasily at his casual leaning arm, and her smile dimmed a little. When he saw her smile fade, he should have reassessed his words. "…Hogsmeade?" Her smile plunged at the corners, and her small ink-stained hands fisted at her sides.

He stood straight and reinforced his grin; he tried to backpedal and catch the moment as it fleeted by him, wishing he had a time-turner in his back pocket.

"I really shouldn't have followed you," she muttered, her pale upper lip flipped, exposing the dark flesh within before she thundered away. He was wrong, her sneer would be the last image he'd have tonight.

* * *

With George angry at him, and Lee off sulking with him, Fred was left to his own devices, which weren't much when there was no one there to laugh at your joke. George would come around, but hours later, he still wasn't ready.

Fred was sprawled across a small couch in the common room, reading over his little blue book for the evening, the little book stuffed with product ideas that they couldn't quite master. The twins had far too many ideas and very little ways to bring about the ideas; most of the book was just full of puns and clever wordplay, naming the products was as easy as breathing for the boys.

With no entertainment in tonight's program, he decided to invest some time in his future and set about working on the most developed idea they had; Grindle-bald. Its purpose was all in the name; a small charm placed on an object that when picked up by your victim, it made them bald, simple as.

Anyone looking at Fred would think he was reading _Widdle Walt's World of Warted Wonders_ if the transfigured cover was to be believed _._ He hadn't a clue about who Widdle was or what could be so great about warts, it was the title of a book he'd seen in Diagon Alley once and it amused him to no end. He couldn't use a schoolbook cover; if Fred was seen reading for education, it'd mount suspicion and end in a trip to St. Mungo's.

"We could try steal it. I'd try anything at this stage," Fred's mischievous ears perked at the sound of Harry plotting in the common room. Maybe there would be some entertainment after all.

He lay the open book across his chest and remained mute. He decided to listen to the boy first, as he'd yet to spot him, his form obscured by the back of the large sofa. He could have jumped straight in, but he wanted to see how this played out, see if Harry had any true potential as a troublemaker.

"Don't see that happening, I'd say they've locked it up better than the philosopher's stone," his ickle brother grumbled, he'd know that broody character anywhere.

"That didn't stop us last time," Harry teased. Fred didn't feel assured by the playful nature, whatever the boys were up to was no good. The bad kind of no good.

Should he suspect anything less from Harry Potter? Ever since the boy came to Hogwarts, danger danced behind him and seduced his baby brother along with him.

"I mean, really – did you see her reading at lunch? She doesn't even feel bad about it!" said Ron.

Fred groaned internally, obviously, it was about the broom Harry and Ron couldn't seem shut up about. Everyone in the common room knew of the fight between the younger ones, and the house was divided 99:1, the odds never favouring Hermione.

Fred and George may not be on good terms, but other than Lee nobody could tell, any grievances the boys had stayed between them and never leaked into their family or friends. A significant lesson his little brother had blatantly ignored from their shared times at the Burrow.

Fred had fussed with whether to get involved in their squabble, it wasn't something he'd done, and he thought if he left it, they'd sort it out like siblings always did. He'd reached that decision nearly two months ago.

"Mind, her barmy cat's probably eaten Scabbers and she cuddles the bloody monster! It's been months and she won't even admit it's possible; I know he ate my Scabbers, and she acts like it's her monster that's been hurt by _me,_ " Fred only half-agreed with Ron, to be honest, he was glad to be rid of the missing-toed rat.

It always gnawed at his shoes, and he'd caught him eating _his_ Chocolate Frogs one too many times. Still, he'd tried to cheer his brother up when he'd lost him.

"Can we do anything about the broom?" Harry pleaded, ignoring the Scabbers tangent, exactly like Fred would've, Ron never gave up if you let him. It was the responding voice that surprised Fred.

"I've tried Harry. She's not budging, at all. Say's the team broom will do you fine," he'd have confused the grumpy tone for Ron if he didn't know the voice of his captain so well. "The firebolt would have pushed our chances at the cup. With our seeker on an ancient broom, it's not looking good. She's single-handedly lost us the cup," Oliver lamented. Fred could feel his anger rise, as he gripped the chair's smooth frame before finally giving in.

That was the final straw for Fred. It was one thing for Ron and Harry to moan about her, even if he didn't like it, it was another for the far older lad to do it. He sat up noiselessly, not wanting to alert them just yet.

The three Gryffindors were huddled together by the portrait door like sketchy street urchins selling dodgy enchanted watches. Ron took after Arthur Weasley as Bill did, the thirteen-year-old boy was nearly as tall as Oliver Wood. Fred was only a little bit taller but based on trajectory his ickle brother would surpass the twins soon enough.

Harry was the smallest of the three, he looked like a small child compared to the two boys surrounding him. Fred had yet to speak up, wondering if either of the boys would jump to her defence without his prodding.

"Yeah, she did it on purpose. Jealous is all. Oh, and she hates being wrong. She'd no good reason, right Harry?" Ron nudged his shoulder, as his hands gripped his boyish hips.

Fred caught Harry's eye as he gnawed his lip, he glared at the boy, willing him to man up. Harry looked away from him and nodded to Ron. "We could try Dumbledore, surely he'd understand what's going on, right?" Fred slammed his precious book on the table beside him.

The deer-eyed Ron looked away from Oliver to the raucous bang in front of him. Oliver startled too, as he spotted the stiff-jointed Fred sat on the chair in front of him. He was confused by the anger emanating from him, an emotion he'd yet to see on the jovial beater. Even when they were being pummelled in a match, Fred and George kept on laughing. He wasn't laughing now.

"I don't think Dumbledore would agree with you at all," Fred said coolly.

"Why not?" Ron rolled his eyes as he awaited a punchline that wasn't to come.

"Dumb may be in his name, but he certainly isn't," his demeanour cold as the words slipped by his tight lips.

"You don't know what you're talking about anyway," Ron huffed, as his puffed cheeks reddened. Fred slipped from the chair with ease, he wanted to lure his height over Ron while he still could. He smirked, far more sinister than any of the boys were used to. Harry and Oliver stayed silent, which was for the best.

"Anyone who's been in the common room the last two month knows all about it Ronniekins, you speak as quietly as you eat," he sauntered closer to Ron, the Weasley blood exploded across the younger boy's cheeks.

"You only say that 'cause you _fancy_ her," Ron almost shouted. The silly word caused Fred's nose to wrinkle.

"Don't say fancy, you make it sound childish," Ron scoffed mercilessly as if it was truly ridiculous. Though he ignored it, knowing it would anger the disenfranchised Ron more.

"Besides, even if I _fancy_ her, she's still right. You don't just get sent a broom that costs more than our bloody house from nobody. It's suspect, and you should have been gifted the dear old Headmaster's name instead if you don't think so," said Fred. 

"He's right Ronnie," the soft amble of George's voice sounded from the bottom of the boy's staircase to his left, he turned to him in surprise, as George leaned against the bannister with crossed ankles. Fred's eyebrows raised slightly before a delighted smile bloomed across his face.

He always knew they'd be alright. George gave Fred a subtle wink, the others wouldn't even notice. They were always alright.

"See? And he doesn't even _fancy_ her," Fred mocked, he relished winding Ron up and getting his squared jaw to clench. He loved it even more when George was here to enjoy it, too. He put his hand on Harry's skimmed shoulders and stared him down. "Don't be like Ron. I can _barely_ manage the one I already have," he hoped Harry would be less stubborn as his hot-blooded brother.

Ron was seething beside him, annoyed he'd been the brunt of the mockery as usual. Only Harry had the decency to look guilty, yet he never agreed with Fred.

Fred sighed dramatically before pulling away from Harry. Whether Harry kept quiet from fear of Ron, though Godric knows why he'd be afraid of Ron, he had no idea.

All he could do was hope his message had registered; talk to your friend, you gits. He scowled at Oliver before he walked away, the Gryffindor had stayed out of the brotherly squabble, but Fred wasn't finished with him and he wanted him to know it.

Oliver looked at Fred like chickens were popping out of his ears, he subtly bumped his shoulder as he passed him. He said nothing, he wouldn't berate their leader in front of the house seeker or any other teammates, but he wanted Oliver to know this was not the last of their discussion. He had certain words for Oliver Wood that shouldn't be spoken in front of young ears, either.

"Alright? George asked with a grin, as he knew what Fred had done, nothing ever went by the other without notice.

"All-left," Fred grumbled, unable to shake his anger off. George threw his arm around Fred as they walked up the stairs.

"I know what will get your sides straights, brother of mine," George was smirking again, as he knew something Fred didn't.

"Out with it, Georgie," Fred huffed, he was in no mood for their usual banter.

"Is that any way to speak to your brother? Especially, when he knows what he knows, what Fred doesn't know, but someone knows what George knows, and boy do they know," George sang.

"It is when Fred knows George will be hit with what he _knows_ if he doesn't get to the point," Fred said, no true bite to his words.

"Ah but Forgie boy, you can't hit me with what I know, as I happen to know if you hit me with her, you'd be hexed by her in return," George bounced on his feet as they reached their door further down the corridor.

"What are you even talking about?" he asked with an incredulous laugh. George was impervious, as he grinned from pretty ear to prettier ear.

"Well, it wasn't just me to come upon your match with our blight of a brother," George waggled his eyebrows, but Fred wasn't in on the joke. "Another righteous little Gryffindor saw it as well, Fred," George pushed the centre of Fred's forehead with his finger, forcing him back. That didn't give him the in George thought it would. George sighed loudly. "Granger, you dolt."

"What are you on about?" He never saw her there, was George having him on? George groaned, truly bothered by his normally sharp brother.

"Granger was coming down her stairs when I was. Course, she stopped when she heard you defending her so soundly," George laughed as Fred's mouth fell open in a funny manner. "While still dashing, we're less comely with your mouth open like that, Fred" George grinned as he pushed his jaw closed with his finger.

Fred was grateful, as he was too shocked to do anything other than wonder what Hermione thought of him. Did she hate him for defending him like she couldn't do it herself? That seemed like a very Hermione thing to think. Fred laughed loudly to a bewildered George.

As if he'd ever been able to predict what she thought, how silly was he. If he was asked her favourite fruit, he'd say orange, and then she'd say a Brickhouse.

"Did she seem pleased?" He asked, with a gleam to his eyes which caused George to smirk once more. Fred would honestly slap him if he did another riddle-y thing like before. He had no use for Ravenclaws tonight, so George could go shove it somewhere it could be more useful.

"I don't know if her girly little smile was anything to go by when you called Ron thick, I'd say she rather enjoyed the manly display…" George kept his infuriating smirk as Fred's smile returned in full. The confrontation from moments ago, along with the one yet to be had with Oliver, were forgotten in favour of imaging what her 'girly' smile looked like.

As Fred threw his arm around his slightly younger brother, he wondered how he'd copped for all three minutes before he was born. He certainly couldn't imagine he copped well.

"Is there a reason you're still barefoot, Freddie?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,  
> I really like this chapter. It was supposed to have another scene too, but it all ran on the longer side. If I included the scene we'd be at 11,000 words for a single chapter which would be a migraine to edit. Speaking of editing, It wasn't until editing I realised this is my first chapter without any Hermione perspective, at all. I liked having Fred's mind for a whole chapter, it's a nice change of pace, I think.
> 
> As you can see, our boy is developing ever so slightly. Yes, he only really cared because she'd care but he acted on his own for the interaction with Harry and Ron. I don't know when I decided to villainise Oliver but that happened. I love George and Fred so much, it genuinely hurts when I think about his death. I understand they're both different people but I can't imagine one without the other. I's like having toast with jam with no butter - it's not the worst, but it could be better. That strange analogy is how I feel about a world without Fred. 
> 
> So, I've said before that I'm struggling with the time aspect of PoA, haven't I? If I haven't, well, I get PTSD when people ask me for the time. It's the absolute worst. Sometimes I feel like copping out and giving it a happy little ending where nothing happens to anyone and we just move on to the next book, but that's no good. 
> 
> On to my second rant. Though this isn't my first story, it's my first fanfiction story, which is cool but also a bit annoying. Why's that? Because if I'm halfway through a story, and suddenly have a brainchild for a plotline, I can't go to chapter 3 and suddenly start weaving it because that's already published and is canon to my story. It was a brilliant idea too. I'll have to save it for another story, which I'll be doing soon. I plan on writing a long one-shot or maybe like a short ten chapter story, but I want to do a rare pairing. Any ideas? Taking any. 
> 
> With this week's ramble closed, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter or the story so far! Leave a review/kudos, id you're feeling it. 
> 
> Until next time


	13. Indebted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Covid-19 is the biggest mood-killer. You'd think self-quarantine would be great, what else is there to do but write? It's hard to write when all people want to talk about is Coronavirus tallies, which is terrifying and killing my inspiration. In the end, I realised that my little story may be an escape for others, that I can't get myself. So I forged on, I hope you're all staying safe. Whether you're young or old, we're all at risk so be smart and keep safe. 
> 
> With that, I have an update. I may throw another up during the week on top of my weekend update because this was a little short. I make no promise but who knows, maybe I'll be inspired again. Hope you like it!

Life was turning upwards for Hermione. Harry had sat with her at breakfast the week before, and after a long-drawn hour of opening and closing his mouth every few minutes, she breached the awkward silence first with a withering glare. Anyone could ask her dormmates of what life with her was like, and the first thing they would be told was Hermione Granger did not enjoy the morning time.

After her coma-inducing glare, the words that followed were less of an apology from Harry, and more of an acknowledgement of his understanding of her actions. It was less than ideal, but it was enough for Hermione and Harry, had Harry sat and started talking about Malfoy without referencing their fight, that would have been more than she would have asked for.

it wasn’t enough for Ron, he persisted with ignoring her despite the dressing down from his older brother. The ever-growing enigma of Fred Weasley. What could Hermione say of Fred Weasley? Well, she would tell say she was deeply perplexed by the boy. She searched low and high for the motive behind his words and never found one.

Of every Gryffindor in her house, Fred was the last person she expected to guard her vulnerable back, going as far to stand against his kin in the process. It was confusing, to say the least, and she absolutely, unequivocally, well and truly _hated_ being confused.

As she shared her first laughs with Harry in months, she caught Fred’s sleepy brown eyes across the long table over the floating breakfast platters. His red-hair was electric from the static of his pillow, and his clothes hung about him haphazardly. For some inexplicable reason, she never looked away and neither did Fred. There was no malice either’s gaze, they played like two strange dogs crossing paths, snuffing out the other and assessing the newcomer.

Fred Weasley tipped his over-flowing goblet to her, which caused the pumpkin juice to treacle down the edges and onto his second-hand clothing. She caught the smile with the back of her hand before Fred raised his head from his soaked trousers.

Hermione had become increasingly hesitant in her life, questioning every move she made and the sounds around her. The crossroads were a regular haunt as of late, never possessing a road map or handed directions to guide her through the diverging paths. Some roads were less cautioned, but the vibrant red road was misted and obscured, absent of any indicators for the horizon ahead.

She wondered if his actions were the initial phases of a truce, a progression she would encourage wholeheartedly, if so. Still, she was not foolish enough to fathom what Fred Weasley had planned, ever attempting to think like Fred Weasley caused her elbows to itch and her brain cells to dwindle rapidly. Hermione came to a decision, she’d do something unheard of for her; nothing at all.

She’d let the days pass her by, and pray for a return to the old ways of light hellos and passing goodbyes. A time before cursed bludgers, fake love affirmations and weepy first years. That would be the best end to the strange conflict between them.

After a moment of frantic wiping, he raised his cup one more time to her without a droplet slipping out, and a tired grin. Hermione indulged him and tipped her coffee to Fred subtly, escaping Harry’s notice, before both parties broke their gaze.

She kept her smile as she laughed at Harry imitating Draco and his cast arm. The day felt resolved and she had to breach beyond the Great Hall yet. Days like this were ones Hermione could get used to.

Nothing good in life lasted. Once Harry had started talking about his Patronus lessons, the not-so-friendly weight clung to her caving back. She knew she’d have to tell him of her Sirius research, and there was nothing she wanted to do less. Yes, they were talking again but would they remain so once she told him what she was doing with her time while they weren’t speaking? How uneasy was his newfound understanding? She practically ran from Harry, separating from her classmates and heading straight to the unoccupied library with a half-reasoned excuse to her returned friend.

If she was going to tell him everything, she’d at least half a full story to give him. She picked up a small stack of book ranging from _British Heritage of the Most Ancient Wizarding Families_ to _The Wizengamot and Wizarding Procedures_ , hopefully, she could wrangle a decipherable tale from the pile of books trying to escape her filled arms.

She walked to the spot she’d internally claimed as her own and began transfiguring the front of the books as she’d seen Professor Lupin do with his own. She’d become more cautious with her reading after Luna’s secret observing of her in the library months prior.

The library had only two other people present, to Hermione they all appeared as potted plants once she started reading. Unless they were disruptive, then she’d wish Madam Pinch into existence, to admonish the rule-breakers ruining her Sunday.

“Snotty, _c’mon_ , just eat the sweet. I’ve things to do today, you know. Can’t stay here all day, wiping your big honker,” she peered from the edge of her book to watch Lee Jordan guiding a pale-yellow oval sweet with his wand into forcefully closed lips of Theodore Nott.

Theodore Nott was a gangly boy with thin blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His skin was abused from the lack of sunshine, giving the teenager a sickly sheen to his cheeks. His face was very unassuming, but his nose was a fraction too long which elongated his face in an unattractive manner.

Lee Jordan was standing above the teenager as he tried to work in the library, four tables away from her. Lee’s eyes rolled as the invasive sweet failed to pass his pressed lips. Nott’s eyes screwed shut as the pale-yellow sweet doubled down its efforts.

“You’re just being difficult now, Snotty. You don’t even know what it does! It could clear your pimples for all we know,” he laughed at the Nott as his lips lifted to attack but closed abruptly as the sweet mashed against his front teeth.

Hermione squirmed in her seat and tried to look away from the pair. She shouldn’t help him, he was always one of the first to laugh along when Malfoy teased her during class. She shouldn’t even feel bad, should she? In some cases, the best medicine is a high dose of humility to choke the system.

She retraced the first line of text for the hundredth time with the tip of her tremored finger, staunchly determined to stay out it. She would do nothing, wasn’t that the plan? She was only just recovering from the nightmare of Fred Weasley, there was no bloody way she was getting involved.

“Remember what happened last time?” She jerked up to see Nott stiffen in his chair, and pale further – she didn’t think it possible with his ghostly appearance.

Where was the hawk-eyed Madam Pinch? She glanced around for her – for _anyone_ – to intervene in her place. Lee hadn’t raised his voice or broken any rule to garner attention, keeping the older witch away from the nefarious encounter playing out three tables away.

Lee bent down slowly to whisper in the flinching Slytherin's ear while holding his wand aloft and trained on the invasive sweet floating mid-air. Nott’s bright blue eyes widened with each whispered word from Lee Jordan into his ear, the conversation was too quick to cast an amplification spell and left Hemione’s mind in a mild panic. She may not have heard the words, but the expression on Nott’s face indicated they were not the sweet kind of whispers.

“Are you quite done?” She glared at Lee, as he turned to address her lazily with a mischievous grin while twirling his wand in his right hand. He was either uncaring of Hermione or didn’t recognise the signs of an angry witch; flared nostrils, fiery eyes and a sinisterly low tenor.

“Depends. Are you ready to take your medicine, Snot?” He returned his grin to Nott’s face, mere centimetres away from him. Nott scowled in defiance, but his shaky lip betrayed him.

“Well, I think you are,” she threatened lowly, diverting Lee’s insidious intentions from Nott. Lee stood to his full height to face the quiet-spoken threat before him, which wasn’t much taller than Hermione herself. Height was never an intimidating factor for Hermione, especially not when everyone towered above the compact witch, including most of the younger years. Besides, the bite of a Jack Russel could be just as dangerous as any given by larger hounds.

Lee walked away from Nott, the sweet dropped in the lap of the sagging boy, as Lee closed the short distance between the tables. Hermione didn’t move from her position, fingers digging into the red velvet of her opened book.

“That right, Granger?” Lee squared his hips to his feet. If her eyes could cast fires, she was positive Lee would be a smoking ash pile by now.

She could see Nott comporting himself in her peripheral vision, as he began to glower at Hermione from afar with barely concealed hatred. He was disgusted by her, which wasn’t unusual, though it was weakening her resolve to help him.

“See, I don’t think I am, Granger. Is that a problem for you?” Lee’s dark eyes reinforced whatever Nott had broke, Hermione wouldn’t give in when she’d plunged so far. She plotted behind the unending staring contest between them.

She was doubtful Lee would take his scolding as well as Fred ever had, evident by the challenge in his whiskey eyes. It was a vastly different experience than any she’d ever had with his red-headed friend. There were strong threats from both parties, and Lee wasn’t backing down from the younger girl. She knew when she interrupted, there was every chance she’d make an enemy, yet it was an easier war to take on than any she’d have with her conscience for keeping mum.

This wouldn’t be like before, either. Honestly, if she wasn’t so enraged last time, she would have been smarter and less brazen in her tactics with Fred. Luckily, Nott was a prejudiced radicalist and not an innocuous, shaggy-maned muggleborn, which tethered her to rational thought.

Hermione knew exactly what would clear Lee Jordan and almost any student from the library, for that matter. She knew what she had to do, even if her mind disapproved of her sacrilege. She closed for eyes for a moment and lavished in her steady breathing, as her fingers clamped around her research forcibly.

Lee’s brow furrowed as she raised the book above her head. Even Nott’s scornful eyes studied the mad witch before him curiously. She flung the book across the room with exuberance in the direction of the nearest bookshelves, the bang reverberated through the muted area echoing in every ear nearby. Lee Jordan eyes widened as the book collided with the display of ancient book before they narrowed at Hermione, the ramifications of her actions settling in.

“Clever witch, aren’t you?” He sneered down at her, his dark dreadlocks falling above his eyebrows as he leaned closer to Hermione, sinisterly close. Despite the sickening tingle of his breath on her ear, she never veered from his penetrating eyes. His pupils were tiny black dots hidden amongst the whiskey brown. Hermione folded her hands in her lap and coolly stared back at the invading Gryffindor as Madam Pinch soundlessly grew closer.

“You’re lucky you’re Fred’s witch. Very…bloody...lucky.” Lee pulled back with a blowing huff, he turned to leave before the librarian could encounter him, a member of the infamous mischief makers was sure to catch the blame. Nott’s eyes followed Lee out the door and stayed there as the doors clapped behind him.

“What in - Who threw this?” Madam Pinch pummelled down the tables from the far-reaching Library towards the fallen book splayed across the stone floor. She held the book up as evidence, giving the pair a clear view of the splitting spine of the ancient book. Hermione openly shuddered at the sight. Hermione looked to Nott, who persisted in his tense pose of pulled shoulders and stoned jaw. She wouldn’t put it passed him to carry tales to the stern librarian. She anticipated it.

“I couldn’t see,” Nott gritted, his pale cheeks flamed red with his lie. Hermione would’ve stumbled had she been standing. Madam Pinch was unfulfilled and whirled around to face Hermione with the agility of one much younger than she.

“Miss Granger?” She hissed, her yellowy eyes pinned Hermione to her chair, she had every intention of telling her the truth before Nott spoke. She’d accepted her fate the moment the book glided through the air. She hadn’t however, accounted for Theodore Nott lying for her with an unknown purpose. Whether it was a repayment or some bizarre quasi-protection, she had no idea.

She did know if she kept to her original plan, Madam Pinch would know he had blatantly lied to her. If she lied now, well then she would be adding to the gathering web of deceit surrounding her lately. Theodore raised his eyebrows as Hermione kept silent.

“No. I didn’t see,” her voice was barely a whisper, as the lie crept from her hesitant tongue.

Madam Pinch sniffed haughtily to both third years, before stomping away while stroking the wounded book in comfort. Hermione felt the ever-lasting wash of shame shower her, as the witch disappeared behind her desk. She sighed heavily, which alerted the Slytherin boy to her presence once more drawing his eyes to her.

Hermione didn’t linger on Nott, immediately picking up the next book on from her stack and feigning ignorance to the intruding blue eyes of Theodore Nott. She kept her unnaturally natural pose in her chair while flicking the pages of her pack at random. Surely he’d go away eventually.

“Go on then, claim your stupid debt,” she lifted her eyes to the disdainful boy three tables away from her. She checked around her if he’d been talking to her, but they were the only students here on once Lee scurried off. Nott tapped his finger impetuously on the table in front of him, her confusion must have shown as he rolled his eyes skywards.

“Merlin, you're a muggleborn, I almost forgot… _almost_ ,” Hermione’s teeth clashed against each other, as she ground them as she tried to withhold herself from cursing the ungrateful git. She’d stopped whatever Lee had planned for him, had even done so knowing she may get detention or lose points, and the first thing he dared to do was degrade her. She should’ve let Lee be. “Begrudging as I am, I owe you a debt which you must claim now.”

“Why?” He owed her nothing, and if he did, she wouldn’t ever claim it from the likes of Theodore Nott.

“How are you not getting this? Don’t you know everything? What was it again?” He tapped his chin in thought before a cruel smile fanned his face. “Oh yes, ‘ _an insufferable little know it all’,_ that was it,” he mocked. The cruel words stung worse each time, he’d apparently learned the trick from the head Slytherin bully, Draco’s handy tips and tricks to upset Hermione Granger. “Do you know anything of life debts, let alone a simple wizard debt?”

She ignored him and resumed her fake-reading. He’d taken her silence for lack of answer, which was true to an extent. In truth, she didn’t want the cruel git to see her misty eyes. Sometimes, the less complex taunts hurt worst of all.

“Well isn't that interesting…the _envy_ of Ravenclaw not knowing something,” he drawled as he stood from his chair and took the seat opposite her. She kept her eyes on the blurring text, as her cheeks reddened to his words.

“Nobody can know everything,” she defended.

“And yet, you seem to…” he said, leaning back casually in his chair as if they were old friends and he hadn’t insulted her at least five times in two minutes. “It's quite straightforward. If you save the life of a wizard, he is forever in your debt unwillingly saved or not. It's a rather delicate bond, that can form without one realising it. They must repay the favour, against their will if needs must,” she nods her head along despite herself, greedily absorbing each word given.

“A wizarding debt?” She looked to the gangly boy, forgetting the earlier sting of her honey-eyes. He watching her warily contrasting his relaxed state as his arm hangs from the chair next to him.

“Is one of honour. A wizard can choose to accept debt for any favour done for them,” he shrugged casually, but his rounded blue eyes were locked to her.

“And you've chosen to accept it?” She scrunched her nose thoughtfully. That made no sense, whatsoever. Why would he willingly tie himself to a _mudblood_?

“No Nott man has ever rejected a debt. We always pay our debts, unsavoury or otherwise,” he said evenly.

“So, if someone opens a door for you – you owe them, a favour?” she laughed in disbelief.

“Don't be absurd,” he snapped, shifting in his seat away from her.

“I’m not being absurd, you are. How do you distinguish between an act of kindness and granting a favour? It’s silly,” she laughed again, it was too insane not to. Most Slytherins didn’t appear to know the difference between a smile and a smirk, his offended frown included him in the group. She couldn’t help but laugh, she couldn’t imagine being so stringent in her life. Recording everything anyone did for you, tallying which had earned favour and why. It was an inherently silly way of life, entirely deserving of her laughter.

“No one thing is equal to another,” he waved his hand through the air heatedly. “An act of kindness is shared between friends, of which _we are not_ ,” he raised his eyebrow in challenge, she’d never argued with the truth.

“You can just do something because it's right,” she argued instead. She didn’t defend him for praise or a wizarding promise, she’d had even anticipated backlash from him. She’d never imagined he’d enforce an antiquated reward on her, she had pureblood friends and they never acted like Nott was.

“Yes, because the muggleborn lion could want to be kind to the snake she so _despises_ ,” he took his turn to laugh at Hermione, though it was unkind and cruel and drummed in her ears like pots clanging against each other. She dropped her book and draped her arms across her chest.

“I know nothing about you to hate you,” though she did not like him, she didn’t hate him. Hate was too strong a word, for a person she never thought about. She hates what he stands for, but not him personally. “I don’t need your debt.”

“You reject my debt?” His eyes widened comically, had Hemione not become mildly irritated by him, she may have laughed.

“Oh brilliant, what horrible faux pas have I done now,” in place of laughter, she rolled her eyes. His eyes remained as wide as the distance between Filch’s eyes, frantically darting the planes of her small face.

“None. I just don't understand,” his voice full of awe, as if it was inconceivable to not forcibly take favours from people who are only just willing.

“Seems like I'm not the only who could do with some learning,” Hermione reopened her book, holding her book as normal and ending the brief tete-a-tete. She disregarded his presence and the shuffling noise around her, refusing to be distracted anymore.

“What are you reading?” he asked, the shuffling noise faded around her slowly. She wasn’t concerned about him reading her research as it was transfigured to a muggle book of her childhood, though she wanted to tell him to shut up, and just let her read the same paragraph she’d been reading for the last hour. She could do it too, but wouldn't that prove she hated him? It was categorically untrue anyway, she needn’t prove herself to him.

“Just some research.”

“What research could be about the black family?” She snapped her head so quick; she feared her neck would snap. She flipped her book up to see he'd revealed the cover of the book she'd hidden with the sterling silver carved wand in his hand.

“How did you know?” He smirked at her, setting her nerves on edge. A smile seemed unnatural on his dour face, was this playful or malicious? There was no way to know.

“The font wobbles slightly when you turn your page. You should consider adding a stability charm or using your wand to turn your pages instead,” he waves his silver-lined wand and without words, the pages of her forgotten book flip with a whoosh.

“Thank you,” she had no reason to think him, they were just words to fill the break in the conversation.

“What of the Blacks?” He eyed the cover with interest, instinctually she angled the book away from him, as if he dissected the cover for a moment longer he’d see right through her. She’d never been a good liar. Luna had seen right through her, she was practically transparent. So, she said nothing to the smirking snake.

“Wouldn't have anything to do with Sirius?” He beamed as her shoulders tensed, Telling Luna was innocent, telling him was not. She may not despise him, but she was no gullible idiot. She would not fall victim to the cunning snake if she had any power.

“Ah, silence – I’m getting warmer, _aren’t I?”_ She narrowed her feline eyes in warning, he seemed to delight in her discomfort. “Though, wouldn't that make the most sense? The big betrayal and all,” his grin was lecherous as a tiny gasp escaped her without permission.

No book spoke of the nature of his crimes, or his true relationship to the Potters. She had to request archived information, and Harry had to spy on elders to hear the true story. Shes supposes he was born in this world, but Luna didn’t know too much about it either and she was raised with magic. It was something only adults knew of, and any decent adults never spoke of it to nimble-minded children. Although, who's to say those around him were decent? Certainly not she.

“How would you know about it?” she whispered. He could be bluffing, a sly deployment to steal her secrets from her.

“You know how,” he winked but it wasn’t like Fred, at all. It wasn’t charming or mischievous. Regardless, she had no want for what he was offering her or why he was doing so. More importantly, she’d never trust him – bogus debts or not.

“It's none of your business, so if you don't mind,” she made no move to uncross her arms or pretend to read. The dismissal couldn’t have been stronger if she spelt it across her forehead in cursive.

“I have black relatives you know,” he offers his final enticement with a serious tone. “Most of us are. The acceptable pool is scant, to say anything of it,” his cheeks tinged pink through the muttered words. It was a hard offer to refuse, inside knowledge of the hidden workings of the Blacks. Hermione front teeth sunk painfully into her bottom lip. It was seductive to her, though she knew it was too turbulent to engage with untrustworthy Slytherin. She shook her head vigorously and picked her book, for what felt like the millionth time that morning. “You could accept my debt, ask for secrecy,” Theodore wasn’t ready to drop it as Hermione was.

“Why are you so intent on me accepting this?” She threw her book down harsher than intended, Nott barely flinched as he slowly adjusted to the turnabout of her moods.

“Like I said; Nott men pay their debts,” her ire stoked as he shrugged his shoulders and reached for her abandoned book. She pushed the book away with her finger, his amused eyes chased the book across the wooden surface. He gave her a look as if to ask what he’d done now but he knew why.

“Your debt is to stop bloody asking me about accepting your debt,” she said firmly, with a pointed finger. He gave her a look as if to ask what he’d done now but he knew why, before a slow grin burrowed across his gaunt cheeks.

“Was that so hard, Granger?” He smiled playfully as she burned him with her golden eyes. She picked her book up, watching him as if he would break the silence and interrupt her reading again. He held his hands up in mock surrender while smirking in that peculiar way, like the cat who licked the cream.

He pulled a book from his back pocket and kept to his chair in front of her, as she finally turned the damned first page of the book. Both read peacefully with only a desk between the muggleborn lion and pure-blood snake. Neither spoke to one another, and he never asked of her books again, both students content to observe the rules of Library in peaceful companionship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, 
> 
> So, that was the update. Harry is talking to Hermione, Ron isn't and Fred is radio silent. Is Fred really stopping? Not even a little bit. More on that later lol. Lee was a real dick in this chapter. Sorry if you're a Lee Jordan stan, I needed someone to take the fall and it wasn't going to be Fred or George lol.
> 
> I had the idea for an unrequited Theodore Nott/Hermione Granger from the first chapter, so I hope this didn't feel plopped in. When I thought of creating a 'modern' parallel to James/Lily, it didn't seem possible without a version of Snape so I knew I had to pick a Slytherin. I didn't go for Draco for a few reasons but mainly because I wanted to keep him as the villain of the story. Also, there's so many stories on Draco/Hermione and this didn't need to be another one. I like Theodore because he's undeveloped but easily fits into canon, there's a lot you can do with his character unlike Draco unless you're completely shifting your story. 
> 
> Speaking of shifting the story, I still fucking hate time-travel. It's the absolute worst, and I completely understand why JK regretted introducing time-turners to HP. I have a time-turner replica and I can barely look at it lately without cursing. I just can't seem to fix one tiny plot hole, and it is mind-numbing. I come closer and closer to just writing a summary of the end of PoA without any changes but nobody wants to read the same thing over and over again. I think I may just roll with it and magically fix my plot hole or hope nobody questions it, otherwise this story is dead before it even really takes off. 
> 
> Anyway I hope you liked the chapter. Leave any Kudos/review, I hope this provided a small escape from the crazy of the real world
> 
> Until next time


	14. The Sundance Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets an unexpected surprise, and experiences a taste of teenage rebellion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. 
> 
> I've returned with an update and a great excuse lol. I want to start by saying I will never abandon this story. I have a large portion of the chapter finished, so there's no backing out when I've put so much effort in. Unfortunately, I struggled with inspiration with the fear flying around in beginning of the Rona. That stopped thankfully, but I'm classified as an essential worker so that's really tied me up when the true quarantine kicked off. Sorry I've been gone for so long, I've missed writing so much. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, because I loved writing it.

“Is he right?”

“I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t catch that,” Harry sighed dramatically, before casting a glance around the hall to monitor the level of privacy around them. The corridor was jam-packed with students rushing to the next classes, their current conversation was too low spoken to be overheard in the hubbub.

“Do you reckon Lupin is right? That it’s just a difficult spell, or do you think it’s something else?” he whispered. She faltered a little in her step when she paused to listen, the flow of traffic pressed into her back and moved her forward again.

“It’s a NEWT level spell, I don’t think I could even manage a wisp if I tried,” if her reasoning had fallen upon deaf ears, it was tricky to tell as Harry kept his head bowed, too busy in his own world.

“I’ve never struggled this much with a spell,” he confessed.

If she had said she’d never been jealous of Harry before, it would be a poor excuse for a lie, and one nobody would stand for. For others, it was his fame that incited jealousy or his envious wealth (for the few who knew).

For Hermione, it was his natural talent and ease with magic that birthed her green monster. Hers was practised magic, built on labour and research. Yet, Harry mastered most dark spells on his second or third attempt. If Harry Potter was struggling with a Patronus, she’d be doomed to-

 _Ompfh_.

Hermione’s bookbag fell from her shoulder, the pages, and books within scampered across the floor. Harry caught her arm before she could meet the ground as her bag had. She tried to apologise to the victim of her reckless walking while she righted the ruffled pleats of her skirt, but they’d already disappeared in the black crowds.

“You’re all over the place lately,” Harry scolded as they picked up her fallen belongings on their knees. Hermione tucked her chin and fished for books between the shifting bodies swarming the hall. “What’s going on with you?”

“I tripped, Harry. You’re behaving as if I’ve committed a crime,” Harry paused in his paper scavenge, but stayed in his crouched position on the stone floor with her. 

“We never see you outside of meals. You’re never in the common room, and you’re running off to the library-” she interrupted Harry as he listed her offences off, checking them off finger by finger.

“-I’m always in the library, how is that any-” Hermione dodged the bag of a student swung dangerously close to her head like a cloth wrecking ball. Had they no manners?

She would be trampled if she didn’t hurry it along. Harry didn’t miss a beat, her near-miss didn’t leash that sniffer dog.

“-Never this much,” he cut across her firmly, demonstrating a cutting motion with his hand. “I heard Lavender complaining about not getting any sleep because you’re doing homework till all hours, when are you even sleeping?” He stood up, less enthusiastic about helping her than he was in cross-examining her. Of course, it would be Lavender who sparked this unfounded concern.

“Why would you ever listen to Lavender? She complains if the showers are too wet,” she giggled, if they were in court, the judge would laugh as well. Harry didn’t catch her rolling eyes as he hovered above her.

She shoved the loose parchment deep into her bag. There was no need to be gentle as the once-crisp pages were slaughtered by the soles of passing Hogwarts students - few sheets survived the massacre. When she clasped her bulging backpack closed, Harry held his hand out to help her up from the ground.

“Thanks. They’re like a herd of rhinos from down there,” she scanned the corridor which had thinned considerably.

“Very unexcitable way to go,” he smiled, arching his dark brow upwards. “Good headline though – ‘ _Boy-who-lived, killed by foot,_ ’” Harry chuckled, and she joined him. For a moment, she felt her age – laughing with Harry in the corridor about rhinos, and fake headlines. It was absurd and silly, and exactly how she wanted every minute to be.

All things have ends, and the shelf-life of this moment was speeding forward at an accelerated rate. She noticed the once brimming corridor was now empty, all the storming rhinos returned to their cages and left the two stragglers behind. Harry sensed her dwindled mood and followed her way-ward eye, but panic didn’t grip his face like it had with hers.

“Hopefully, he’s not in yet - let’s go,” Harry took the lead, both were near-breathless when they met their class door. Luck was on Harry’s side as he’d wished; the double-doors were still open. They’d made it before their professor, who was now over five minutes late - not that Hermione was complaining.

“ _DEMENTOR_!” someone yelled across the classroom as they entered. In the corner of the room, she spotted Draco, Crabbe and Goyle with their hoods drawn up as they made ghostly taunting noises.

It was a repeated affair, and Harry had since grown numb to the callous attempts to spook him. The viscous trio laughed nonetheless, laughed as hard as the first time they’d done it.

The joke was constructed on little and a poor imitation of the cloaked monsters, but Harry’s presence was the only key to tickling their insidious funny bones, his reaction rarely factored into their pickled brains.

She looked to her left, she expected to see the usual flair of annoyance on Harry’s face. Today, his nostrils were swelling, and his green eyes were sharp in a way she’d rarely seen but recognised it for what it was - fury.

The enraged emerald eyes only had eyes for one.

Malfoy’s laughter slowly bubbled away as he sensed the rolls of heat a mere ten feet away from him. Noticing their leader’s divided attention, Crabbe and Goyle smothered their laughter, and began to form a guard at their leader’s side. Where she could only see violence in Harry’s eyes, in his grey eyes there was a dare and smug intention.

The tension was palpable, and the consequences were beyond her scope. She tugged his arm out of Draco’s sight, not that he’d notice - he was fastened to Harry.

Harry was immovable and oblivious to her pleas for calm as his hand began to toy with the hidden wand in his pocket. Draco’s grey eyes flicked to the wand, uncheated by its hidden nature. He raised his regal blonde brow in response - try it, Harry. 

“They’re not worth it,” she bent close to him, a feeble effort to curb his anger before his lid blasted away. He was a dog who’d felt the heel of a shoe too many times and short of a bullet, there was no stopping him.

“You’re only giving him what he wants,” she reasoned. She hoped the threat of satisfying Draco was more sickening than any momentary relief he’d get from his blind-cursing.

It was the outcome she predicted, but it was taken with a great loss from them both, his defeated eyes fled to her, severing the sinister connection with the enemy. Draco self-righteous smile was her true consequence in this battle but refusing Harry his right to defend himself was equally as cutting. 

“Let’s find Ron,” she limply held his forearm in her hand and guided him away. Harry never spoke, but he made no effort to stop her.

“Isn’t it the master who walks the pets, _Potter_?” Crabbe loudly called to them as they walked away, the Slytherin class’s muffled laughter echoed in her ears, her humiliation acting as the multiplying force, allowing each pitchy laugh a chance to grace the stage. She resisted the urge to drop Harry's arm.

She knew Harry was ready to take defence, as he suddenly lagged her. So, she gripped him tighter and tighter, never letting him go until she reached the security of the Gryffindor tables.

Most of her house wasn’t paying attention, too engrossed in their chats. Some were fuming with anger at their cherished house seeker’s treatment from their rivals. A noticeable few threw Harrys subtle looks of confusion as he returned, wondering why Harry had let the son of a known death eater away with it.

There was only one other Gryffindor who truly understood their plight. The hue of his face was almost blending to the burnt orange hair atop his head.

“Stop staring at them,” she scolded Ron as they settled into their seats. Harry took his seat beside Ron in and retrieved his things from his bag in a stoic manner. Ron’s brotherly bond buzzed, he clapped Harry’s shoulder in which earned a simple nod from Harry.

“Could you imagine if we started prancing about as Hippogriffs? We’d be in front of the Board of Governors before Draco could say ‘my father’,” Ron seethed. 

It was brutal, if not irrefutable. Retaliating would be a morsel of satisfaction, overshadowed by the bitter aftertaste of punishment for the simple act of defending themselves. It may be true but pointing it out didn’t help them now.

Moreover, what she could say to Ron was an unknown for Hermione. He’d started talking to her a few days ago, the reason why wasn’t in her purview, but she knew they were still far from where they once were. Until that rat could be found – it was alive, she was sure – they would stay on shaky ground.

The door clapped closed, alerting her to the arrival of Professor Lupin guiding a large tank of water in front of him. The murky water obscured the contents of the creature inside, she could only discern a darker stain in the middle of the tank, like that of a large blob. Professor Lupin slyly winked at the three as he passed by.

“Sorry, I am late but carrying this requires work,” he playfully wiggled his wand, eliciting some scattered pity laughs from his audience. “Mister Finnegan, that table was not developed for your behind so if you could take your seat, please and thank you,” he pointed to Seamus, who had yet to spot the Professor’s loud arrival.

“Another creature for you today. Once again, it is not too dangerous, but as we learned with the Hinkypunks; ignorance can be the deadly ingredient in any dance with dark creat…” She took out her things from her bag, ready to dive headfirst into the class.

She straightened the curling edges of the only pages of parchment that had not been trampled and aligned her four quills precisely in the left-hand corner alongside her two inkwells. 

“Psst,” Harry nudged her elbow softly, drawing her attention away from the intriguing lecture.

“What?” she mouthed. Harry gestured to her quills instead of interrupting the class again, asking for her support in his pilfering of her stuff.

Rolling her eyes, she pushed the quill towards him and shushed him before he could disrupt the class again. She knew the speech he’d give about replacing the borrowed quill by heart - in normal circumstances, she found the sentiment endearing.

When the class had already started it was less heart-warming. So, she waved off any of his attempts to deliver his speech with her hand. He took the quill with a small smile and thanked her, in spite of her shushing.

“…Horns are a great defence mechanism to ram at opponents. Though, the true threat is the teeth. As you’ll see in a moment, there’s more than a thousand and believe me, shar…” She tried to focus but was rather distracted by Harry and Ron, who were huddled close together and snickering over whatever Harry had on his parchment. 

She scowled at the boys – they were too busy enjoying the unquestionably hilarious written word of Harry James Potter to see. So, she pinched Harry’s side painfully, causing Harry to jump from his skin with a surprised yelp.

She spun her head to her professor at the front of the class, praying he’d not heard the macho scream from Harry. Thankfully, Professor Lupin continued to demonstrate the dangers presented by Grindylows without pause or distraction. 

“ _What the_ \- do you sharpen your nails with knives?” Harry soothed the area where she pinched him., Guiltless and superior, she censored the boys with a severe glare.

“Stop talking,” she pointed her finger at him, labelling him guilty of a great sin. Harry rolled his eyes while Ron pretended to zip his lips. Her eyes fell to his parchment, but Ron slapped his hand over the text.

“Bloke stuff, you wouldn’t like it,” he shrugged his shoulder. She rolled her eyes heavenward. It was fine, they could keep their secrecy so long as they also kept as equally quiet. Before she could return her attention back to her teacher, Harry pushed the quill he had borrowed from her towards her. She raised an arched brow in confusion.

“I thought you needed it?” She whispered quizzically. Harry shook his head while biting his smile as if he was considering his answer thoughtfully.

“Ron’s given me one to use instead,” he said, each word dropping from his stilted lips carefully.

“What’s wrong with mine?” She asked, taking extreme offence to Ron’s muffled snigger which choked in his throat as Harry elbow him swiftly in the ribs.

The quill was from an impeccably high-quality range of quills from Scribbulus Writing Implements. She had yet to use the quill and there was no reason the brand-new quill could be faulty. In all three years of buying from the shop, she’d never been dissatisfied with the product. She drummed her nails on the desk to spur an answer from him.

“Just thought I’d use Ron’s this time, is all,” he said, and his answer did little to quell her suspicions. Ron grinned beside Harry.

Sometimes, Hermione experienced the friendship with the boys as if through a glass mirror, where she was with them but so was a barrier. She understood the barrier mostly - how it had come to be, and how it survived through the years of growing friendships and fortified bonds.

The barrier was not an obstacle to overcome, no matter how hard she fought it. It was a fact of life and acceptance was the only way forward. The current situation was an example of the barrier revealing itself, but only for her eyes.

“I mean I’ve always thought of you as family Harry,” Ron said, eliciting light giggles between the two. She looked to them beseechingly, vainly hoping they would relent even with history rallying against her. As time passed and the boys kept to their bubble, she grew snappish.

“We can’t lose any more points – certainly not because you two are behaving like small children,” she stubbornly swung away from them and back to her class.

The mollified boys simmered down in their easy laughs sluggishly. Her paranoia was peeking, feeling less shut-out of their joke, and more likely the brunt of it. Should the quill be held accountable for their impish behaviour?

No, she knew it was a perfect quill. And so, she plucked the offending quill from the others with a renewed determination. It was far from the last laugh, but it felt just as swell. 

“Really effective if dragged under. Your ability to stay cool is key to casting correctly when underwater, as you can imagine it’s a wee bit trickier,” Professor Lupin said, as he illuminated the tank for the first time, displaying the Grindylow for all to see in its sickly green glory. Gripping the base of her quill, she started to sketch the creature for her notes.

She worked to the best of her ability – nobody would ever proclaim her to be a dab hand with art. Besides, artistic expression was unimportant to her meticulous notes. However, capturing the defining characteristics of the creature was crucial, not a single stray hair was left behind.

She emphasized the gnarled horns, the blubbery elongated fingers and drew exaggerated zigzags for the rows of teeth. Her version of the Grindylow was easy to identify if not slightly cartoonish.

As the last line drew, she searched the image for any missing details. She glanced up to the dark creature for reference, who was busy clawing the confines of its glass prison. Hmmm…the fingers could be longer. She clucked her tongue and dropped her head to her notes.

A bizarre thing happened when she looked down.

The drawing she created mere seconds ago was nowhere to be found. The page was filling with lines of swirling red text before her eyes. She followed each word as the page filled without interference from her stayed hand.

_…How many loved your moments of glad grace,_

_And loved your beauty with love false or true,_

_But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,_

_And loved the sorrows of your changing face…_

Poetry? She tilted her head in question. Where had her drawing gone? She grumbled to herself.

As she crawled the rest of the class, who had jumped drawing and on to the habitats of Grindylows, she realised how it had got there was a question for later. She’d simply get the picture from a book later to replace her lost drawing. Even if it wasn’t as detailed as hers, it was better than what she had – sweet nothing.

Switching to fresh parchment, she quickened her pace to catch up with her class, who was now discussing the Ebublio jinx, while she furiously scribbled what she could remember about their habitats.

…occasionally infiltrating urban environments where stagnant waters are found.

As her quill lifted from her page, it happened once more. The words malformed and shifted from her factual informative writings to prophetic and grandiose statements of love. The passage grew and grew, long beyond her paragraph the colours started to shift from midnight black to a darker red than before – almost blood-like.

_…And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,_

_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_

_The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_

_But tell of days in goodness spent,_

_A mind at peace with all below,_

_A heart whose love is innocent._

“Oh, for f-” she snapped aloud, clamping her lips closed tight around the slippery words threatening to escape. She rubbed vigorously at the pages; a vain muggle attempt to erase the poetry trumping her notes beneath. They weren’t gone, they couldn’t be gone – there was no way they were gone. 

“Alright, Hermione?” Harry asked, peeking over her shoulder. His emerald eyes traced the poetry before she covered it with her arm. She pointed her accusing eyes to her friends, their green and brown eyes alive with mischief stared back at her. It was a strike against them.

“What did you two do?” She scowled; the pair only smiled wider as her glower fiercened. 

“This wasn’t us,” Harry replied amusingly, his finger flicked between her parchment and his. The slits of her feline eyes grew thinner. “ _I swear_ ,” after a moment of searching for dishonesty - a twitchy eye or the drum of a nerve shackled laughter from either– she relented. Sadly, they were innocent.

Well, calling them _innocent_ was a leap. It was as clear as day what they were tittering about now. Yet, calling them guilty was a bigger leap, even if on some level she deemed it true. She nodded in acquiescence, accepting his words and shoved the jinxed quill into her bag.

The class had galloped away from her, what little she could learn from the class would be useless without the proper foundation. No - she could always learn something. She picked up the next quill and started to write, feeling defeated despite herself.

To her amazement and irritation, the next quill suffered the same fate as the last, but very differently. Where the other quill wrote poetry, this quill was conversing with her. A one-sided conversation, but a conversation all the same.

Grindylows are feeble-minded, and can be trained but never by a wizard…

_…and it is my greatest belief that there is no harder working student than you. Your eyes aren’t half bad either. They’d look especially great in Madam Puddifoots, counteract all that pink - awful lot of pink in there._

The words followed her, chasing her own – the red ink mixed covered the black of the quill so quickly, it was near-impossible to see her writing at all. It was hopeless, and without hope, she continued to write.

Grindylows are wickedly fast...

_…do you like raisins? I much prefer dates. Preferably with you._

Grindylows can live for fourteen years…

_…did you know the combination of our last names is Greasley, and while terribly unappealing, it could be a brilliant hair care line._

Grindylows are tired and would like you to reverse it, so Hermione could have her notes...

_…and Charlus for a boy._

She slammed her quill against the offensive text, it was glaringly obvious who was responsible. There was the question of how he’d gotten her quills, and where he’d found this gawdy spell, but his identity required no investigation.

She was awash with intrigue and irritation, swirling and mixing so dynamically, she was unsure which emotion was stronger. She thought of asking the quill to stop, maybe if he were on the other end she would beg him, but a request like that would come with a cost. One she was not willing to pay, at such an exorbitant rate. In place of pleading, she sulked.

She flipped the pages and shoved them to the side, away from her eye line and any lurking onlookers. She no longer knew how far ahead the class was, and she no longer cared.

A sensible person would say buck up, to keep calm and carry on. They would tell her to ask for a spare quill from her neighbouring friends, but she would tell them to sod off, as she had lost her senses three paragraphs ago.

She crossed her arms and leaned back, half-heartedly listening to the teachings of her professor and counting the minutes remaining in her mind. The class etched by, and the only time Hermione could say she had paid less attention was discovering her teacher was a werewolf. To their credit, Harry and Ron didn’t so much as mutter for the remainder of class. For Ron’s health, that was his best survival tactic as his hauntingly red hair may have incited an uncontrollable riot.

“There’s little more I could say about these creatures. Now, that is not to say there isn’t more to be learned,” he paused to glare at the intrusive low whispers somewhere in the middle row. “Yes, Mister Goyle that does sound like homework, and rightly so. Sixteen inches of parchment to be precise. Awe me with your knowledge of Grindylows. That’s all for today,” he slashed his wand, flinging the double doors open with an influx of wind.

With their dismissal, every student rushed to get to the Great Hall. Hermione had them beat; her bag was ready before the doors had opened. She wouldn’t wait for her friends either, they’d find their way just fine.

“Miss Granger, a moment please,” before she could breach her exit, her professor called her back. She considered pretending she hadn’t heard, possibly blame the flurry around her – she was no she-wolf.

Begrudgingly, she turned back. Harry and Ron smiled to her in commiseration as they passed her, hard luck, Hermione. There was no prevailing fear of Professor Lupin, but she was wise enough to understand being asked to stay behind was never cause for celebration. Her professor pushed his winged-back chair out from under the hole of his desk.

“I hadn’t planned on asking you to stay, but I admit my nosiness won out,” her professor sat in his chair. There was a familiarity with him unlike any she had with her teachers, past and present, yet she felt to sit without his express permission was assuming, with a high chance of being construed as inappropriate.

“About what, sir?” she asked, her professor smiled kindly, striking the features of his chocolate-brown eyes in a handsome light.

“Whatever had you huffing like a Hungarian Horntail throughout my class instead of paying attention,” he said seriously, and gestured for her to take the seats opposite his desk. Hermione eyeballed the chair - did she want to discuss this with her professor?.

“It’s silly,” she said, shaking her head and politely sitting on the edge of the chair.

“I was once known to enjoy silly things,” he rebutted. With no other avenue, she drew the ill-fated quills from her bag, but kept the love notes to herself. To have someone she’d grown to admire associate Hermione with romantic poetry was something her little heart couldn’t take. 

She explained what little she knew about the quills, without offering his name to her professor. The man was far from dim, he’d remember who had pronounced his garish intentions in this very classroom and align the clues himself. There was no need to tattletale when the culprit made no effort to cover his tracks. Professor Lupin listened to her while inspecting the quills and never interrupted, only littering amused smiles here and there. A bad sign, if you asked her.

Her professor leaned down to the drawers of his desk for a piece of parchment. She felt urged to protest, but knew it was irrational – she’d wilfully handed him the quill, it was ludicrous to think he would do no more than hold it. All she could do was internally cringe, as her eyes followed the deep-red stalking his writing.

Her professor kept the quill aloft, he saved her the small decency of outright laughter. From her side of the desk, it was indecipherable, but she was curious if the quill adapted for the writer or the phrases were merely pre-programmed drivel. With his head tilted, the twinkle in his chocolate brown eyes revealed itself, the situation was not without enjoyment for her professor.

“I knew of a man who created something not unlike this spell,” he hummed to himself, as his hand glided across the feathers of the quill. “If the creator of this was half as talented, I can safely say there is no reversal.”

“I’d say a quarter as talented, although I’ll admit bias,” she said with a slightly bitter tone, Professor Lupin chuckled in response. His laugher was chesty and drawn, while maintaining a reserved air.

“Yes, being young is more difficult than the old can remember,” he smiled to her. It was a welcome validation for Hermione, who was often accused of being dramatic from a very young age.

“Even so, I’m dreadfully useless to you. Have you considered asking him to reverse it? He is after all-” he coughed into his fist and lifted the parchment mid-air with an expression Hermione likened to that of a performer on the West End. “- _The most singular wizard in Hogwarts._ ”

“And incredibly _humble_ ,” she said, Hermione’s embarrassment was the second-hand kind. Fred would likely blossom as he heard the swooning words recited, so someone ought to be embarrassed on his behalf.

“Arrogance is a trait often found in the young, and rarely for the reasons you expect,” he inclined his head as if he had passed sage advice to her. She’d never debate his knowledge of dark magic, but on this she knew him to be false. He seemed to interrupt her silence as a blanket acceptance.

“I’ve never been one people asked for advice, the life I’ve led was never one people sought to have. Though, I treasured my days at Hogwarts, and that’s all I’d offer you. Don’t let little things like this bother you, or you’ll never have a moments peace,” he smiled, picking the quills up and holding them out to her.

“I’ll try,” for a second, she considered telling him to throw them away with the remains of his lunch. Instead she took them, for a reason she couldn’t explain. He stood from his chair, signalling the end of the conversation and Hermione, never one to outstay her welcome, followed suit. She plucked her bag hanging from her chair and wished him a good day. In a repeat of earlier, he called to her as she left, but this time it was welcomed.

“You know, it’s a lovely day outside. I’d love to get out, but I’m tied up till Sunday,” he winked, the small winkles of his eyes crinkled with it. Hermione beamed in response, for she understood what lay beneath his words.

“That’s a good idea, sir,” she said, relishing the game and part she played.

“They happen every so often, can’t control them ” he laughed quietly. “Go on, my prying has eaten enough of your lunch time,” he waved her off, and she left with a smile.

Hermione was going to be different today, for one day only she’d use her time-turner for her selfish designs – an extra-long lunch. Hardly an adventure caper for most, not close to any tales of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Yet, the sliver of rebellion was a thrill she would remember for days to come.

She grasped her Professor’s advice with both hands, almost running from the castle grounds to the Whomping Willow. A trip, tumble or fumble couldn’t shred her exhilaration. It was an amplified feeling of her time with Harry earlier, and tenfold as free. She wasn’t a complete idiot yet, when she grew closer to the sentient tree she kept walking. She may not have seen anything horrid about the scar on her professor’s brow from angering the tree, but she had no want for one of her own.

Entering the willow with ease, she carefully climbed the rickety stairs – they were probably spelt for security, but there was no need to test that theory. She bounded down the narrow corridor to the room he’d granted special access and threw her wand and bookbag on the dingy upholstered chair.

Had she gone too far? She could head back before break ended, and everyone would be none the wiser. She paced the small room, back and forth, and back and forth. She was breaking not only Hogwarts rules, but ministry rules – laws, even. She was more like Butch than she’d previously thought.

No, she agreed to this, and she was no coward – she may be the only one to know she backed out, but the worse promise to break was one to yourself. She just needed to distract herself until lunch ended, then there would be no other option than to use her time-turner. She looked around the room for a book, something else to concentrate on. Was that photo-frame always face down?

She’d been here a handful of times at most, but she’d like to think she was more observant than that, it wasn’t always like that, was it? She moved closer to where the frame rested on the mantle of the fireplace.

To be frightfully honest, she actively avoided the photo when she came here and the invented mystery in her mind, as she wondered who was so cherished by her professor to be the only one displayed. Then she used this room for reading when she needed to be away from Hogwarts, not to snoop on her professor. It must have fallen – cleaning could hardly be considered snooping.

She picked up the frame, and now it was in her hands there was no point in looking away. She expected to see his family, recognise the chocolate eyes of his father and the placid nature. However, expectation was always miles from reality. The glass was smashed, which probably occurred when it fell, but the photo was where the true shock lay.

There were what appeared to be four people, standing against the backdrop she’d recognise in a heartbeat and just has, it was the Gryffindor Common Room. They were clearly teenagers, possibly fifth years, but Hermione was poor with age and worse with guessing the age of wizards. Dumbledore was proof of that, she’d have guessed sixty-five, not a man in sauntering through his one-hundred-and-fifties.

All the teens were sprawled out in front of the large fires, engaged in a game of exploding snap and seemed like poster-boys of brotherhood. Remus was the first person her eyes found, his hair was blonder and his cheeks ripe with youth. Barring the grey, he’d aged well for most men but poorly for a wizard. The boy beside Remus was not as imposing as the other boys, the other three were what Lavender once called facial lottery, and he was strikingly average beside them. She’d not seen him before, so she was at a loss for a name.

Next was James Potter. He was every bar of Harry, and his messy mane was almost tangible for her. The movement of the picture allowed her to see more than a muggle photo, he was aiming his pillow at the final boy. Arguably, the most handsome of the boys and definitely wanted. Most wanted, more specifically.

_Sirius Black._

His image always managed to tickle the hairs of her neck, and cause the tips of her fingers to numb. Seeing a photo of him like this was infinitely worse, like having her light stolen from her. She was void of any positive emotion, like she was a vessel holding nothing but dark thoughts all stemming from the smile of a mass-murderer.

The juxtaposition of his amiable smile shining towards his friend and victim, was chilling. A stark reminder of how you could never truly know someone, and how to warp someone’s trust.. 

"Wasn't I a dish?" said an ominous voice from somewhere behind her. Her feet were glue, she couldn't move – she was petrified from fear alone. Professor Lupin said only she knew how to get in. She prayed she was hearing things, a voice for the photograph, created by her imaginative brain, but the numbness of her fingers spread faster up her arms as the sounds of footsteps grew louder and the air grew warmer.

Yes. Today was a day she was unlikely to forget. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again haha, 
> 
> I saw a reddit post which talked about appreciating the silent reader, and it was a nice thought. So I dedicate this chapter to my readers, but more specifically the silent readers. I never commented on stories until I started writing this, because I never knew what to say, something like 'great chapter' felt so lacklustre, so I never did. I kept coming back because I liked the story, so thanks for returning. I appreciate it. 
> 
> That was very little rambling for such a long time away, I'm proud of me lol. I'll update as soon as I can, but I think I might edit the earlier chapters, there an absolute mess to read. Actually, if any of you are interested in being a beta to this story that would be pretty cool, too. I'm shit at editing, as you all already know, who am I talking to lol? 
> 
> On the chapter: We all know who it is, there's no way y'all are shocked lol. I still like it, anyway. I don't know why that's the title either, tbh. Also, the poems aren't mine (captain obvious, reporting for duty), they're lovingly appropriated by yours truly. The first is W.B Yeats, When you are Old, and the second poem is Lord Byron, She Walks in Beauty. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, theories, what you liked or what you hated.
> 
> Until next time, and stay safe


	15. Honeysuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione faces an unexpected opponent in a place she'd never expected with consequences she could never predict.

At home, the walkway was covered in honeysuckle. The sweet aroma blasted the air all around, and she associated the smell of honeysuckle with Barling Borough. 

Like most people, her home was a haven for young Hermione. There, Ollie Parker couldn’t call her Tumbleweed or kick her bag out of the line. The only scandal to ever rock Barling Borough was the occasional verbal warfare between her neighbours, Sarah Hyland, and Harry Herford. 

The feud ignited after Gimpy, Harry’s schnauzer, discovered Sarah’s Hibiscus shrubs made for a delicious summery snack. Every resident was peeping around their curtains to capture each cursed word sneered by Sarah for their future re-enactments at tea-time. 

Oftentimes, when she found herself feeling uneasy, she imagined the scent of honeysuckle. If her bag was kicked over again – she imagined honeysuckle. If she was stumped by a question on an exam – she imagined honeysuckle. If Malfoy _spoke_ – she imagined honeysuckle. Like mint to the sinuses, it dissolved all negativity within her. 

Now, the fool-proof method was found to be a fallacy. If she were swathed in a cradle of honeysuckle, she wouldn’t shake the dread overwhelming her quieted chest. The photograph in her hand was endanger of combustion under the pressure of her dense fingers.

She prayed her little rebellion had driven her to lunacy, the man behind her was merely a symptom of disease. A brazen rejection of the physical presence heating the air around her. Sadly, there was no denying it; he was here.

“Wasn’t I a dish?” said the named stranger behind her. By a pityingly effortless process of elimination, there was only one name on offer and a want to reject it. Her beloved professor’s voice never inflamed her nerves as he had. 

“Have I interrupted?” his voice crackled like the song of a burning fire. It sounded as if he were pained to speak. Beneath the cracking, she detected the lengthy vowels of an upper-class man. Over a decade of imprisonment, and his years under wealth still shined through.

“I was no good with rules. Far too many of ‘em, and all the _dreary exceptions,_ ” he paused. “ _Sit here_ ,” he whispered in the mimic of a sugary-sweet feminine voice.

“– DON’T SIT THERE!” he screeched like a wailing widow. The sudden screech startled her. Her eyes flew open with fright, the view of his shadow dancing on the floor greeted her, darkening the pale wood as it moved right to left, and left to right. 

“ _Square your shoulders_ – TUCK YOUR CHIN!” the floor bounced beneath as he interchanged his characters. He switched between shouting and whispering effortlessly. Her fingers twitched with every shout, aching for her covered wand on the chair across the room.

“Fold your napkin across the knee, and keep the one in the pocket clean,” he finished in a sing-song voice. The creaking wood hushed as the man behind her stilled. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his shadow, if they slacked in their pursuit for a millisecond, he’d strike her where she stood.

“I’ve gone and lost where I was,” he tutted, the wood dipped heavily underfoot as walked to her. “Aren’t we clever?” he barked a laugh. The heat of his flushing breath brushed the back of her neck like wet cotton. “I’m afraid distractions won’t work with me.” 

“No, no, no. Funnily enough, someone once told me I had a one-track mind. Now, she was wrong about the direction, but her theory held water,” Hermione winced as he touched the hanging tendrils of her ponytail, unmoved by her discomfort he persisted. “I do have a purpose…one you could serve quite fabulously.” 

A fear-induced short-circuit of her motor functions forcing her into paralysis when all her desires begged her to flee the room. She didn’t pretend to understand the inner workings of a deranged mass-murderer, though she’d sooner light herself on fire before aiding him in whatever twisted plans he had for her. Sacrificial ceremonies were at the top of her list for the limited help her young body could offer, if such magic existed. She had to get out before the rituals commenced.

“People know I’m here,” without the heavy sting of his moist breath, she could trick herself into believing he’d gone during the silence. She hoped he may be less inclined to cull her spirit from her body if he could be caught mid-murder. The reasoning was flawed as Hermione was thinking with a sound mind. He laughed coldly. 

“Poor liars make poor bedfellows. No, I doubt you even know where you are,” he tugged at her hair lightly, she quickly jerked her head from his intrusive touch. “Or maybe you do…” 

Lost without her hair, he switched to picking at the fabric of her jumper around her shoulder like he was plucking the strings of a guitar. She feebly tried to look away from the filth encrusted fingers perverted her field of vision. The nails were frayed and peeled from their nailbeds, and the beds themselves appeared as if they’d never experienced the steam of a hot bath. It was impossible to avoid them “…No, I see no ticks. Don’t have a case of the furries do you… _Hermione_?”

She froze.

“H-how do you know my name?” she whispered, scared, and trapped by him like the fly to the spider. 

“Am I so easily forgotten? Times certainly have changed,” he chuckled and released her shoulder with a final pluck. The residue of his bloodied hand lingered on her body like toxic gas, even as he walked away the stench remained. 

She had to escape before he tallied another victim on his dark list. Whichever way the ball spun; all her sloppy plans involved a scary amount of improvisation. The distance between her and the wand was not only great, but the path was also blocked by the diabolical madman at her back. Nonetheless, she had to try and where honeysuckle failed, a wand could conquer. 

By her estimates, there were four steps to her wand and four chances to be caught. Her heart bashed against her chest in protest, spurring her to move – to do anything. The first step was the hardest. She held her breath, seized the small opportunity and moved a step closer while turned from him… _three more to go._

“Is it the hair? He hated the hair,” she focused on the sounds of the wooden floor for the feel of his movement, the ongoing soliloquy was shown to be quite the distraction. “It couldn’t be the hair…is it the hair?... No, it’s not the hair.” 

She took another step… _two more to go_. She waited for a reaction, a hint he’d been paying mind to her. When none arrived, she boldly took her third. _One more to go…_

“I saw you before, you know – at the match. It wasn’t until the next time I saw…” the words were fuzzy in her ear, she wished he’d shut up even if it was the crutch of her sneak escape. “…A brilliant seeker, isn’t he? Probably better than we ever were at his age,” 

“He’d have loved it…he’d would’ve sat there; covered in red and go…” her sole focus was her escape and she was close, too; she could almost hear her wand beckoning her, feel the rub of the fine ridges lacing the handle popping up from the lip of her bag, primed for her taking. “…only there was no broom fit for a new-born being sold.” Carefully, she took her ultimate step. 

Having the wand within her grasp worsened the banging in her chest as the stakes soared higher than ever. She faced her final choice; should she try disabling him, or create a diversion to escape? There was no estimating his level of skill, how quick to brutality his fighting skewed or if Hermione had the skills to match. 

Defensive spells were a weakness for Hermione despite being impeccably well-read, there was no opportunity to practice effectively executing dark spells against an opponent. With countless variables, her best play was offence; she’d spell the shelves from the wall and onto Black before he could react, lock him behind her before she sought help. 

“Best not to dwell on such things. Needless distractions, I say,” with one hand occupied by the photograph, she turned her body to conceal the hand slowly extending for her wand, finger by finger. “I suppose you’d rather I was distracted so you could sneak to your wand.” Hermione's hand froze mid-air.

The floorboards squeaked underfoot as he started to advance. He was approaching her faster, and faster, there was no time to wonder if this was to be her closing breath, she yanked the wand from the bag immediately; the bag flopped to the floor with the force of the action. Armed, she swung around causing her ponytail to slap against her cheek. Her arm locked as she pointed her wand directly at his face. His ghastly, ghastly face.

Hermione was kind to people. Beauty was a smokescreen designed to conceal the terrible ugly monsters within. For the handsome boy in the photograph, the sentiment no longer rang true. 

Yellow teeth dotted his curled lips, and where fat should fill his hollowed cheeks, limp curls slotted in and narrowed his skeletal face further. He resembled a fresh corpse dug from the ground before the maggots could claim their supper. Although there were inklings of his once handsome face in his melted silvery eyes, in those silver eyes, she saw her reflection mirrored to her as she aimed her wand dead-centre of his face

“You’re not as dim as I thought, are you? You don’t think things through, but you’re not without a few brain cells, are you? No sir, _you’re a sneaky little flower,_ ” he whispered as if it were her secret exposed. She looked to his hands in search of a wand and found them lacking. 

She should have blasted him through the wall and yet, all she could do was wonder. He must have thought her too weak; she was a reckless child who’d wandered away from the cushioning comfort of the castle. “What are you going to use? Nothing _too_ dark I hope,” he arched his eyebrow. 

Thrown by his assured attitude, she realised the situation had changed radically. Defence was thrust upon her and it became a question of her own limits as Harry’s voice repeated in her head; could she do as he’d vowed and commit murder? Had his violent past demeaned his life to the value of a rat? Did her safety warrant it? 

She hesitated. 

For a split second, she hesitated. He saw it, too. His head tilted; silver eyes zoned into her with an indescribable glint. Black stepped _closer_ , his nose was nearly touched the apex of her wand. Defence, indeed. 

She tightened her hold on her wand.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” she said assuredly, a stunner spell she’d used against Neville Longbottom and proven to work. The first warning all was not as it seems was his maniac smile widening. 

“ _PETRIFICUS TOTALUS_!” She shouted. He remained unpetrified; something was terribly wrong. With every spell she screamed, old or new, her intent grew darker. 

“ _CONFUNDO_!” She screamed, the wand in her hand warmed though no magic cast. " _DIFFINDO_!” Once again, there was nothing. " _PULVIS!_ ” His bones were unbroken. 

“Go on, tenth times the charm, isn’t that the saying?” Black mocked.

Her heart thudded loudly in her ears dizzyingly. In a last-ditch effort, she reverted to her original plan and redirected her wand to the walls.

“ _REDUCTO!”_ the walls flashed white and absorbed her spell whole with no lasting effect. _“CONFRINGO!”_ she cried, driving her wand hard. White fog sputtered from her wand like an air-locked tap before fizzling out. She stared at her with confused terror. 

Sirius Black clapped his hands, drawing her attention from the intact walls to his decayed smile. “Let’s try again, with a little more _oomph_ this time. Truly _imagine_ my bones disintegrating like you want, here –” His caked fingers grappled her forearm and dragged her wand-tip to pierce the thin skin of his forehead. The forceful contact elicited a sharp gasp from Hermione. “– I’ll help.” 

“What shall we try, first?” he cruelly taunted, the oppressive doom of her situation knocked her back. The unforeseeable loss of her magic was a hurdle she couldn’t conquer; magic was normally at her beck and call, now she was a defenceless muggle. 

Black’s bold stand against her was not rooted in fearless abandon as once thought, he’d known of his invincibility before she’d touched her wand. He’d had the upper hand the whole time; she’d assumed she were a victim of circumstance, but he knew more than an opportunist would; how to access the Willow, her _name_ and he was responsible for her cursed magic somehow. “Well?” he nodded his head.

Lacking any true plan, she flung the frame in her left hand at the centre of his wiry chest with all her might; he released her arm instantaneously as he bent at the waist and inhaled large mouthfuls of air. Before he could recover, she ran for the open door in a craze. 

To her horror, her captor was not without his own means. “ _Colloportus_ ,” he coughed out. The few dregs of light which illuminated the windowless room melted and condemned her to total darkness as her body slammed against the chipped door. 

“No!” she jangled the handle aggressively; a futile action against his wandless charm spell. “HELP! PLEASE, HELP!” She banged her fists furiously against the tremoring door. Numbed by the protruding spines of wood shredding the skin of her hand she beat against the door, and called out – Harry, Ron, Remus, Hagrid, Dumbledore– anyone.

“There’s nobody there,” his wounded speech sounded like scrap metal dragging across concrete.

Regardless, she persisted in her banging and recited her roll call. Over time, the names suffocated in her throat, and each thump grew lamer and lamer. 

Bang, bang, bang…bang...Defeated, she rested her head alongside her curled hand. The ache in her hand was mounting the longer she rested. 

The trickle of hot crimson coursed down her forearm and plodded to the floor in tempo.

Drip…drap...drip…drap…

The relentless slow pour was never-ending and amplified by her oppressed vision in the vacuum of darkness. A sliver of her heart was grateful for it, if her blood could fall her heart was still thumping. The ball had dead-stopped; any dreams of escape deflated with his basic charm spell.

“ _Please,”_ the grit of her sadness coated her words. She flipped around to face him; the motion created a cold flush of against her cheeks as her tears absorbed into the damp air. In the darkness, she could pretend his heart wasn’t as cold as he portrayed. Deep down, she knew pleading with a deranged killer was like asking a shark to give you back your digested leg.

She reckoned she should fear him, without her vision there was no means to find him in the dark. Fear was a bygone of a time where hope existed for her; devoid of either feeling, she wallowed in her abysmal misery. 

She heard light feet scuffing the floor before the flickers of fire crackled in the small fireplace and hued the room in an orange bath. She closed her eyes briefly to deblur her vision and wiped her cheeks before he could relish in her fallen tears. 

Once open, he wasn’t hard to find; he was knelt by the glowing embers holding a squarish wand spouting blue-ish sparks at the miniature flames. She couldn’t hear his words; she knew it was a spell as the small fire expanded gradually and supplied light to the shabby room. Satisfied, he grunted and clumsily rose; her blow to his chest was affecting him more than she dreamed.

The soft light did wonders for his skin, tricked the eye into believing there was colour there while simultaneously exaggerating the contours of his sunken face even more. Overall, he was less frightening but not handsome by any definition. 

“Just sit down, you’re not going to be bloody harmed,” he pointed his hand to the small armchair where her bag had fallen during the commotion. She remained against the wall. “Or don’t,” he rubbed a hand across his face. 

Her eyes followed him as he crossed the room and gathered the fallen photograph from the broken pile near the chair. “I remember this day,” he said to himself, and wiped his filthy sleeve along the picture and smiled. 

If his performance was supposed to evoke sympathy for the care he showed, it was a poor manipulation. How he could look at them after what he’d done was equally fascinating and blood-curdling.

He didn’t lift his eyes from the photo when he spoke again. “Unfortunately for you, I need a favour and you’ve no choice in the matter.” 

Hermione _laughed_. It was borderline hysterical if you were an onlooker. 

Earlier, she’d fumed about a jinxed quill as if it were the worst thing since the invention of accelerated broomsticks, to then have Sirius Black tell her she was to be his pawn less than an hour later was bizarrely funny to her. She lifted her eyes mid-laughter; Sirius Black’s startled confusion spurred her on. The guttural laughter caused her sides to ache and throat to constrict, maybe his madness was contagious. 

“I’d die before helping you,” it was a chilling statement wheezed through slowly dying laughter. He narrowed his eyes. 

“Powerful words when you don’t know what I’m asking of you,” she shook her head tiredly, all traces of laughter left her face. The particulars of his request were irrelevant, nor did she believe him about her choice.

In every aspect of life, muggle or magical, there was choice. Wrong or right, hard or easy; what you did was based on the strength of your convictions, and if she were to die today, she’d die with the knowledge her friend would be okay.

“You’ll never get to Harry, I swear it.” 

“I’m not trying to kill Harry,” he barked, and made a move towards her before slightly faltering. He hissed in pain and his hand flew to his chest, the light exertion worsened his injury. She felt no guilt, all she heard was his lack of denial to the slaughter of the Potters and rendered her twice as uncaring, proud even. “I want the rat,” he rubbed his chest harshly, as if he could etch away the ache. 

“The rat?” her pert nose soured. Black’s hand ceased in its ministrations and dipped beyond the hem of his soiled shirt to retrieve a remarkably wrinkled paper. Once out, he shook the paper vigorously to unfurl it. It didn’t do much as the wrinkles were ever-lasting scars of his mistreatment of the delicate sheets.

She squinted to read the paper in his outstretched hand; she recognised the logo of the Daily Prophet from years of reading but the muted lighting, and his poor care had rendered the paper’s headlines impossible to read from her distance. 

Black made to walk closer to her while holding the paper outright towards her. Instinctually, she backed against the door like a wounded deer. He stopped, noticing her distrust and tossed the paper at her feet. She eyes him suspiciously, worried he’d strike her unawares if she bent to retrieve it, she carefully looked down to read the headline instead:

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE_

She gasped in horror; she saw this picture every day for the first week of term. Ron paraded the article around the common room for all to see how he’d spent his summer holidays. The Weasley family were all smiles and happy-faced against the backdrop of the Pyramids, she traced each Weasley and searched for who could be his potential target. 

As she spotted the family pet lounging on Ron’s shoulder her eyes darted back to Black. There had been no miscommunication; he was hunting a true, wood-chewing, food-stealing rat. " _Scabbers?”_ she exclaimed.

“Scabbers? _How_ _bloody perfect,_ ” he laughed humourlessly and chewed at his dehydrated lip. “I’m afraid that’s no rat,” he pointed to the paper on the floor accusingly. Four legs, prominent eyes, a humped body, and winding tail… seemed an awful lot like a rat to her. “He’s a wizard…” her eyes doubled. “…Named Peter Pettigrew.” 

She waited for a cackle or wicked smile, any indication he was codding her on. He looked at her as if he’d learned the world was ending by nightfall. He was serious – and _bloody insane_. 

“You’re insane – you _murdered_ him in broad daylight!” she wondered if he were unhinged before Azkaban, or if living under the care of dementors had done more than emaciate his body? Once upon a time her professor had called him friend, she couldn’t imagine such a friendship existing with the person he was now. 

“The rat bastard is alive!” he spit viciously. Hermione felt as though she’d been doused in ice water. It wasn’t his aggression at fault, that blame fell to the memory said phrase triggered.

“ _The rat bastard,_ ” the quote sprung from her lips as if she’d been struck with a bolt of lightning. Meeting his eyes, she repeated the phrase though it didn’t strike him the way it had for her. Funnily enough, he was looking at her as she had with him; bonkers. “The Quibbler article quoted you when you were caught; the rat bastard.” He looked upwards as if he were rummaging in his brain for the memory.

“Yes, I think so. I confronted him after I found them,” he gazed down to the photo in his hands. “He knew I’d come for him; had it all planned perfectly. Killed the muggles with the wand at his back before I could wring his neck,” he kissed his teeth before he looked back to her. “Of course, only I noticed the small rat sneak into the drains but who cares what I had to say, right?” Hermione had a wild thought. 

A spark that led her down the same rabbit hole months ago; perhaps there was more to the story. With all research, it begins with a single question.

“What happened on the night Voldemort died?” make no mistake; her words were shrewdly chosen. He’d propped himself on the stage of her microscope and she observed him like a new strain of Staphylococci. Most curled like a salted snail when he was named so freely, innocent, or guilty, all feared his name. 

In the end, he swept over it like one would with any name. There was no cursory scan for enemies or squeal in reproach, he only gave his account of the long-passed night in excruciating detail. While relying on human behaviour for his defence was negligent, the accompanying testimony could certainly sway the ballots of a few jurors.

He presented an airtight case; every answer was well-crafted and delivered flawlessly, though a severe lack of corroborating evidence made her dubious of his story. She had the word of one man with twelve years to prepare his argument, and no living witnesses to refute it; Peter Pettigrew was either dead as a person, or dead as a rat. 

“You’ll bring him to me,” he edged closer and held his hands as if clutching an invisible object. 

“Scabbers is d-dead. My cat ate him,” on Ron’s word, her cat swallowed his rat whole leaving nought except a strip of blood as evidence of his former existence. Short of resurrection, what he’d asked for was beyond her and the rest magical community’s capability.

“He’s alive and you’ll bloody bring him to me!” he shouted, speckles of his saliva hit her face causing her eyes to shut protectively. 

He took a deep breath while he backed away from her. She opened her eyes on at a time to watch him. With one hand he clutched the mantle and stared into the fireplace as flames licked one another. She preferred him at this distance, it afforded her more time to anticipate his erratic mood swings though deprived of her magic she could only prepare herself for the onslaught. 

“Besides, life debts are a funny magic. There’s no explanation for how they occur,” he glanced over his shoulder at her. “What is known is the consequence of a refusal,” he said mysteriously, and returned his attention to the fireside. 

“I don’t understand what you mean...” she said slowly, if she weren’t mistaken, it seemed like a hidden threat. He continued to stare into the fire for some time, his silence confirmed the intent of his words; it was a threat. 

“Tell me petal, are you a half-blood?” while the words lacked bite, the abrupt question was loaded. She was unapologetic of her status in the world, through experience she learned in dangerous company it was best to hide her heritage. He dropped his hand from the fireplace and turned to face her.

“Muggleborn?” he raised an eyebrow. She refused to blink lest she gave him the confirmation he wanted. He sighed and turned back to the fire. “Well, there’s a magic bond called a life debt –” without his eyes on her it was as if she gained confidence.

“–I know what it is,” he whipped around to face her, she regretted her interruption under his scrutiny instantly. Concern for an outburst was unjustified in this example, he nodded for her to continue with his permission. 

“A life debt is a delicate bond that can form without one realising it; If you save the life of a wizard, he is forever in your debt unwillingly saved or not. They must repay the favour, against their will if needs must…” she recited what Nott had told her a few weeks passed, gently tapering off towards the end

“Then what are you confused about?” he asked confused. 

“What it has to do with me!” Sirius eyes sprung open as if the loose screws had finally tightened, he pushed from the fireplace. 

“Ah, why I am owed a life debt?” she nodded her head. “I’m sure you’ll recognise your hero shortly,” there was no preparing her eyes. She’d seen the transformation before with Professor McGonagall, it made her giddy for what she could one day learn at Hogwarts. Watching Sirius Black emaciated body morph into the mythical beast was no delight at all. 

Whether it was knowing his identity or that she was standing this time around, he seemed even bigger than before, peaking her shoulders by an entire tufted ear. The beast tilted the silver-dipped human eyes in her direction and flaunted his gruesomely thick fangs connected the rows of teeth by strings salvia. His smile was even worse now. 

“You’re the grim…” she breathed, the support of the door behind her prevented her from fainting. 

“While I can admit I’ve been lacklustre in my skincare regime but grim is a bit harsh no?” he mocked, all she could do was shake her head and refute what her eyes saw. How he’d known her name was clear now – Merlin, she tried to pet Sirius Black! “I think I’m a rather adorable dog,” he said haughtily.

“You’re the animal – y-you,” she pointed at him. “You chased me through the forest!” 

“No, I chased the big red fella,” he held his hand out in defence. “Bugger threw a Caterwauling charm at me from behind; did a real number on my ears for a few days there,” he tutted. “I was looking for him when I stumbled on you. I _planned_ to take that wand of yours and leave you to it,” he waggled his own square wand. “Better than this one.”

“Why did you want Fred?” she asked worriedly.

“Was it that one? In fairness to myself, there is forty-three of them. How do they tell the difference?” he tilted his head. “Should save their breath and number them,” his head sprung up and he snapped his fingers. “Nametags.”

The fleeting worry gave birth to a new realisation; she was indebted to Sirius Black with extraordinarily little information of what her defiance may cause. Everything Nott had told her implied there was no other choice but compliance or suffer the extreme consequences. Sirius backed that statement, though his opinion was as useful to her as a paper-bag in a rainstorm.

“I thought when your wand failed, you’d piece it together – fool on me for thinking a fourth-year who trapped herself in Devil’s Snare could lead herself to water,” he waved his wand wordlessly and summoned her fallen bag from the floor. The bag whizzed through the air with a whoosh, he caught it before it could collide with Hermione. “You _should_ have known why you can’t harm me until that pesky debt of yours is lifted.”

“Scabbers is dead, what you want is not possible!” he looked down into her golden eyes eerily calm.

“Once you bring him to me, you’ll be free to live your life with no ties to me,” he smiled.

“I don’t believe you,” Remus Lupin was possibly the most intelligent man she’d met, and he’d been hoodwinked by Black, she was twice as susceptible to his trickery. If she defied all odds and somehow found Scabbers, would it truly be the end? Was there more to life debts than she’d been told? Sirius pushed her bag into her chest.

“That sounds like a personal problem, which I’m afraid I don’t deal with. Though I ask you, is your life worth less than _a rat_? Your family? Friends?” he emphasised every point like a weapon. Yet, if he were to be believed Scabbers was an imposter, a person with conscious thought hidden beneath the magic of transfiguration. “Now, are we in agreement?” he arched his eyebrow. 

She struggled to work out how she was being manipulated, her trust was hard-fought and his reputation had it before he’d spoken. Yet, every dicey decision she’d made had crumbled before her and the next one could be the proverbial nail in her coffin. 

“Fine,” she lied and lowered her eyes, a hammy performance of submission. If he believed her to be an ally, he’d release her under the guise of being his minion and double-cross him as soon as he unlocked the door. He blew out a breath and withdrew his hand from the bag. She caught it clumsily in her hands as it slipped down her body.

“Well that's brilliant! I feared you’d drag this out even more... Oh, one more thing,” her eyes darted to his, would he already reveal his true plan? “It wouldn’t do for you to run to your professors or friends about this. I’ll have your discretion, yes?” he narrowed his eyes. 

“Alright,” fluttering her downturned eyes once more.

“Good - I do _cherish_ breathing, even if my old friends would rather I don’t,” he said, a bitterness laced his voice. 

Children were taught from an early age that lying had consequences, even little ones, her grandmother said that white lies were the foulest of all. White lies accumulated and expanded, told so often the term had lost all potency in the wide world. A guilty person was the master of invention, deriving meaning from words to shelter themselves from the hailing consequences they would one day face. Hermione’s lies were too wide to sit into the tight bracket of a white lie, though she’d learn the cost of deception.

“ _Libenter dedit, violenter capta,_ ” a sweltering heat bubbled below the skin of her arm. She screamed in agony and clutched her wrist in the cradle of her chest. The sensation was like bullets exploding shrapnel along the veins of her dominant arm, the pain bathed the room in a clinical white. 

“Blasted pain isn’t it? Don’t worry about the scar it’ll heal soon,” he grabbed her slumped body and eased her to the floor. 

“Why?” she panted, the only words she could muster as her head lolled forward. The stabbing pain behind her eyes subsided, her wracked body fought for stability of her nervous system.

“The debt,” she froze. “What? Foiled your grand plans?” he asked. 

Yes. 

“It’s part and parcel of debt affairs; prevents any reneging on your end. The taste of pain you experienced is what you’ll struggle with if you were to even _think_ of defying your word,” he bent on his knee to level with her. “You’re not going to do that, so there should be no cause for worry, correct?” 

No. 

“I’m not unreasonable, I understand wanting to protect your friends,” she weakly opened her eyes. “I promise you; once you bring me Pettigrew, I’ll be gone and no harm will be done to _anyone,_ ” he gently placed his arm on her shoulder, she’d almost believe he were sincere if he weren’t a proven liar. Could she cry foul when her lies had brought her here? 

“What will you do with him?” heavy breath dotted the pauses between her words, if he were Peter Pettigrew, she could be delivering a man to his death without trial. He removed the hand from her shoulder to lay on his bent knee. 

“What I do with him, isn’t your concern,” he stood slowly, the bones of his legs cracked in protest. She wanted to demand answers from him; it was her right to know if she were to be an accomplice to murder. She weakly tried to push herself from the ground, her arms wobbled and slipped from under her shoving her down dejectedly. “Stay down, you’ll be right as rain in a moment.” 

She lifted her weak arm to shield her fraught eyes of the rigours of daylight flooding the room as he released his spell to exit.

“I daresay twelve years is a long life for a rat; and a great deal more than he deserved,” she peeled her sweaty arm from her tired eyes, and revealed the empty room she once loved. She lay her head on the cold floor and dreamt of honeysuckle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, 
> 
> God, I couldn't count how often I edited this chapter, it's a major fork in the story so it required a lot of decisions, did I want to go this way? How haveI characterised Sirius? Is Hermione's laughter out of character? Should I do this instead? I switched from A to B so often, I eventually broke B - I mean, I have 6 alternative scenes for this chapter. SIX! 
> 
> If you think Sirius is out of character, a bit vindictive or too insane, I can tell you he was much more insane in the other versions lol. Nonetheless, I stand by his character. In the original story I don't think he was crazy enough for someone who's been in isolation for 12 years, his only focus is Pettigrew so he's ruthless in approach and doesn't care for it. I liked adding the little breaks where he realised Hermione's anguish and tried helping in his own failed way though, showing he's still inside beneath the madness.
> 
> I tried to add humour where I could but it doesn't really fit the tone of the chapter. Hope you liked it anyway, let me know your thoughts, all comments/kudos are welcome and absolutely adored - honestly it's like verbal heroine for me lol. What do you think is going to happen next?
> 
> Until next time and stay safe


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